BERKELEY  N 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CAIIFORNIA  . 


Y  I 

OF    1 
.A/ 


THE   MONIAD. 


BY    "TRUTH." 


COPYRIGHTED. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
PUBLISHED  FOR  THE   AUTHOR. 

1867. 


PART  FIBST. 


The  proposition — A  glance  along  the  street — The  voluptuous 
dreams  of  Croessus — The  poetic  cobbler — The  miser's  an- 
guish— The  student's  labor — Hope — Lorenzo  de  Medici — 
Failure — Indolence — The  millionaire  and  the  penniless — 
Why  the  Poem  was  writ; — A  fair  maid — The  home — The 
stroll  and  discovery  of  gold — Arrival  of  the  King — The 
maid's  dream  and  the  King's  passion  on  beholding  it — 
His  declaration — The  conception — The  birth  of  Mam- 
mon— His  rise  and  greatness— The  love  of  the  people — 
King  over  Wealth— A  mountain — Building  of  the  palace 
— Description — Idolatry. 

MONEY  I  sing.    Behold  the  gaping  crowd 
Which  gathers  when  I  breathe  the  word  aloud. 
Attentive  stand,  the  ripe,  plethoric  dame, 
The  satined  maiden  with  the  spotless  name, 
The  lordly  merchant  all  his  mind  at  ease, 
The  lawyer  pursey  with  his  swelling  fees, 
The  poet  with  the  hesitating  walk, 
The  parson  with  his  ministerial  talk, 
The  banker,  who,  the  populace  to  please, 
Now  rashly  flutters  bank  notes  in  the  breeze. 


772 


4  THE   MONIAD. 

For  these  are  days  we  know  it  to  our  cost 
That  dollars  gold,  have  given  up  the  ghost. 

The  crowd  increases.    There  a  figure  bends 

Who,  at  usurious  interest,  money  lends, 

A  furious  word  or  caustic  sting  he  hears, 

Turns  half  bewildered  with  his  rising  fears, 

And  rushing  madly  from  the  accusing  spot 

He  mutters  something  like  unto  God-Wot. 

A  miser  creeping  grudgingly  along, 

A  moment  pauses,  listening  the  song, 

Nor  seems  a  pleasant  fancy  to  imbibe, 

He  sudden  leaves,  and  joins  one  of  his  tribe. 

A  gilded  carriage  hastily  attends, 

The  liveried  coachman  servilely  descends, 

A  moment  hears  the  solemn  words  I  say, 

Informs  his  master  and  they  dash  away. 

So  many  come,  but  many  yet  remain, 

Whose  Penury  is  all  the  others  gain. 

And  they  the  poor  still  linger  round  the  spot, 

To  hear  a  word  perchance,  to  bless  their  lot. 

Oh  !  that  the  power  were  in  one  little  pen, 

How  would  it  change  the  laws  and  state  of  men, 

Some  as  they  are,  some  higher  place  assume, 

But  many  should  take  on  another's  doom. 


THE   MONIAD.  5 

What  are  the  dreams  of  Croesus,  when  the  charms 
Of  rich  lipped  syrens,  nestle  in  his  arms  ? 
What  visions  tempt  his  gaze  at  every  turn, 
What  changing  passions  all  his  bosom  burn 
When  loose-robed  Love,  seduces  with  delight, 
Or  coy  repents,  and  slyly  pleads  for  flight. 
The  rich  juice,  bursting  from  the  mellow  fruit 
Is  not  more  luscious  than  her  amorous  suit, 
When  aye  she  flames  for  those  forbidden  acts 
That  whirl  her  brain,  and  all  her  powers  tax. 
In  times  like  these,  his  every  move  we  scan, 
We  find  with  all  his  wealth,  he  is  but  man ; 
His  powers  wane,  and  all  his  joys  will  end, 
No  matter  what  endurance  he  pretend. 
Like  some  hurt  sword,  oft  broken  in  the  bout, 
Whose  mere  repairing  surely  wears  it  out. 
So  he  the  sad  sign  of  the  past  now  shows 
And  on  his  wrinkles  paints  a  withered  rose. 

A  youth,  the  victim  of  a  cobbler's  bench, 
Whose  nose  revolts  at  each  foul  leathery  stench ; 
Whose  tender  hands,  and  pale  white  arms  are  taught, 
To  wax  and  stitch  in  hours  dearly  bought. 

1* 


6  THE   MONIAD. 

Who  many  a  time  has  tapped  an  hostler's  shoe 
Rich  with  the  odors  of  the  stable  dew ; 
Who  pegs  away,  and  silent,  murmurs  not, 
Still  dreams  that  love,  and  fame,  shall  be  his  lot. 
Perchance  one  day  his  longing  eyes  shall  see 
The  muses  waiting  for  his  mind's  decree ; 
Perhaps  the  Nine,  by  sacred  duty  led, 
Will  place  the  laurel  on  his  yielding  head. 
The  candle  maker  drew  the  lightning  down, 
Ajaccio's  student  reached  to  high  renown, 
The  pigmy  vessel  braves  the  raging  main, 
Why  not  the  cobbler  breathe  Poetic  strain. 

How  fares  the  monster  of  the  greedy  eye, 
Who  every  cent  penuriously  puts  by  ? 
Who  walls  his  hovel  round  with  solid  chests, 
The  only  stock  in  which  he  e'er  invests. 
How  starts  he  up  in  absolute  affright, 
If,  but  the  winds  do  whistle  in  the  night. 
Around  his  cell,  he  casts  his  glazing  eyes 
To  see  some  villian  from  his  coffers  rise ; 
As  with  an  ague  all  his  muscles  twitch, 
How  feels  he  then  the  pangs  of  being  rich. 
A  murderer  reigns  high  monarch  of  the  place, 
While  shudders  stamp  their  wrinkles  on  his  face. 


THE   MONIAD. 

And  so  the  night  creeps  on  in  agony, 
While  everything  of  terror  gallops  by, 
Until  in  seanis,  far  deeper  than  my  verse, 
With  ink  more  black,  is  writ  the  miser's  curse. 

The  student  grappling  with  the  laws  of  Coke, 

Oft  on  his  knees,  will  other's  aid  invoke. 

O'er  Purdon's  notes  he  dreams  of  golden  hoards 

Until  he  wakes  to  view  his  white  washed  boards ; 

Will  o'er  tobacco,  oft  persistent  lurk, 

And  still  forget,  the  way  to  wealth,  is  work. 

The  histories  of  all  the  monied  great, 

Of  men  who  glittered  in  a  jeweled  state, 

Of  kings  whose  chambers,  brilliant  gems  outshone, 

Of  subjects  hilts,  which  paled  a  monarch's  crown  ; 

That  none  need  e'er  be  poor,  these  all  attest, 

With  tact  and  prudence,  Work  will  do  the  rest. 

Hope,  like  an  eagle  springing  from  the  plain, 
Soars  far  beyond  the  clouds  within  the  brain. 
Oh !  what  were  life,  if  stubborn  Fact  alone 
Threw  its  hard  shadow  o'er  each  torpid  zone  ? 
No  bright  ambitions  then  our  souls  would  fill ; 
No  fond  desires  that  fonder  hopes  instil ; 
No  imagery  of  the  star  eyed  queen, 
Who  on  love's  landscape  freshens  every  scene, 


8  THE   MONIAD. 

Would  ever  thrill  us  with  a  joy  intense, 
Our  only  pleasure  then,  were  common  sense. 

Just  as  the  floods  of  Erie's  quiet  sea, 
Chafed  into  fury  by  the  narrowing  lea, 
Is,  by  the  hand  of  the  Almighty  hurled, 
Into  Ontario's  grandly  seething  world, 
So,  when  the  torrent  of  a  mighty  wealth, 
Drives  men  to  hazard  honor,  brains  and  health, 
The  coming  wrath  of  God,  each  votary  sees, 
One  it  makes  mad,  one  yields  to  foul  disease ; 
So  Steele  decayed,  so  Greene  was  stricken  down, 
Their  brains  too  weak  to  bear  a  jeweled  crown. 

Who  reads  of  great  Lorenzo's  gilded  halls ; 
Of  Titians  that  adorned  his  peerless  walls ; 
Of  priceless  statutes,  that  by  his  command, 
Were  almost  touched  to  life  by  genius  hand  ; 
Of  landscapes  terraced  by  a  master  mind, 
Whose  beauties  shone  resplendently  refined ; 
Of  praises  the  Venitian  people  shed 
With  fluent  lips  upon  his  worthy  head. 
Who  reads  of  these  but  feels  his  temples  beat, 
And  longs  the  glowing  story  to  repeat. 


THE  MONIAD.  9 

How  would  we  strive,  how  many  ills  endure, 
One  hour  like  his  to  hero-like  secure. 
Hope  bids  men  rise,  but  nature  dooms  their  fall, 
For  one  such  man's,  a  stimulant  for  all. 

How  some  unfortunate,  his  woes  bewail 

When  all  his  life-long  aspirations  fail. 

What  torments  will  engulf,  his  mind's  deep  black, 

When  on  his  efforts  Fortune  turns  her  back  ; 

What  madness  choke  the  utterance  when  he  feels 

That  to  the  fickle  goddess  still  he  kneels  ; 

How  swells  his  bosom,  as  with  hot  disgrace, 

If  but  a  rival  heads  him  in  the  race. 

He  sees  that  still  he  scrambles  in  the  mire, 

His  future  rankling  with  disaster  dire. 

What  would  he  not  attempt,  what  would  not  do 

To  be  both  rich  and  great,  have  honors,  genius,  too. 

Thou,  Indolence,  shall  stigmatise  his  deeds, 

Who  on  the  labor  of  his  mother  feeds ; 

And  while  her  back  is  breaking  with  disease, 

He  lolls  upon  a  sofa  at  his  ease ; 

And  if  she  fails  his  appetite  to  court, 

A  sister  kindly  ekes  out  his  support. 


10  THE   MONIAD. 

Too  often  this  unselfishness  is  found, 

They  starve  themselves,  to  fatten  but  a  hound. 

Hereafter,  let  a  corps  of  little  girls 

With  dainty  hands  arrange  his  hair  in  curls, 

And  on  his  crown  to  be  admired  by  all, 

Have  placed  the  newest  fashioned  waterfall. 

The  whitest  powder  puff  o'er  all  his  face  ; 

Around  his  neck  a  lady's  collar  place  ; 

His  form  swell  out  with  curious  things ; — not  I 

Can  tell  their  names,  how  hard  so'er  I  try. 

In  petticoats  his  lower  limbs  invest ; 

Placard  him  o'er  from  feet  up  to  his  breast ; 

Then  hound  him  forth,  to  brave  the  city's  scorn 

Nor  man  nor  maid,  he  was  but  mongrel  born. 

The  millionaire,  who  views  the  rising  sun 

Can  see  but  coinage  through  his  vision  run  ; 

In  all  the  landscape  traces  of  bank-notes 

Dance  in  the  winds,  and  through  the  ether  floats. 

The  distant  mountains  to  his  pursey  view, 

Are  promises,  to  pay,  all  nearly  due. 

The  voices  which  he  hears  among  the  trees 

Are  but  his  dollars  clinking  in  the  breeze ; 

And  nickel  in  the  leafy  spring  he  tastes, 

He  deeply  drinks  and  from  the  spot  he  hastes. 


THE   MONIAD.  11 

But  I,  an  humble  workman  of  the  pave 
Who  oft  a  crust  still  urgingly  will  crave, 
Ne'er  view  the  coming  orb,  save  but  to  see 
A  glaring  ghostly  eye  of  poverty. 
I  look  above,  and  all  my  rising  fears 
But  tell  me  that  I  see  the  sky  in  tears. 
No  scenes  of  nature  e'er  regale  my  sight, 
Plain  bricks  and  mortar  and  the  lamps  at  night. 
The  birds  will  twitter  but  a  sad  refrain, 
I  sigh  for  freedom,  but  I  sigh  in  vain. 
Like  millions  more,  now  groaning  for  relief, 
Who  make  a  noisy  mirth  their  hide  for  grief, 
Well  satisfied,  if  gained,  when  they  implore, 
One  hour  of  joy  in  all  the  twenty-four. 

These  things  I  note.    The  multitudes  pass  by 
Nor  longer  hear  my  words,  nor  hear  the  sigh, 
That  from  my  bosom's  timid  echoing  strings 
Is  urged  by  Penury's  imaginings. 
Now  satisfaction  gluts  the  eye  of  one 
Whose  term  of  life  has  brilliantly  begun  ; 
Full  fed  on  nature's  provender,  the  best, 
He  loves  to  live,  and  living  loves  with  zest, 
No  pain  he  suffers,  nor  the  cold  e'er  feels 
And  yet  no  pity  his  fair  face  reveals. 


12  THE   MONIAD. 

My  work  I  offer.    God !  his  eye  so  gleams 

That  with  an  oath  his  answer  murder  seems. 

Where  e'er  my  steps  I  solitary  turn 

Fresh  insults  meet  me  till  my  brain  does  burn, 

The  caustic  maid  darts  forth  a  look  of  flame 

For  fear  her  skirts  should  touch  my  shiv'ring  frame. 

The  over-pious  upturned  eyes  I  meet, 

Ne'er  see  the  squallor  reeking  at  their  feet. 

For  this  I  barb  my  angry  pen  anew, 

For  this  I  pierce  the  seed  of  money  through, 

For  this,  its  votaries,  pass  in  brief  review. 

My  soul  above  the  menial  trade  then  rose, 

My  heart  enhardened  'gainst  these  steel  grained  foes. 

I  gazed  around  with  silent  wondering, 

I  fain  would  cry,  and  find  I  can  but  sing. 

So  sing  I  will,  let  my  oppressors  pale, 

I  care  not  if  their  grossest  deeds  unveil. 

To  winters  cold  they  give  my  crooked  frame, 

No  purse  strings  open  when  they  hear  my  name. 

Half  clad  and  hungry  I  might  wander  round, 

Die  in  the  streets,  nor  hear  a  pitying  sound. 

As  if  a  beast  that  gnawed  the  scanty  bone, 

I,  feeling,  sense,  taste,  harmony,  have  none. 


THE   MONIAD.  13 

Yes,  I  can  sing.    The  right  and  wrong,  my  theme, 

I  revel  in  anticipations  dream, 

As  wrapt  in  rags,  I  sit  in  judgment  place, 

On  those  who  flaunt  their  satins  in  my  face. 

Ere  yet  a  history  of  man  was  writ, 
To  blazon  virtues  and  to  cherish  wit, 
There  lived  a  maid,  whose  beauty  all  did  own, 
By  all  beloved,  by  all  her  goodness  known. 
Embowered  in  the  trees,  reposed  her  home 
Near  by  a  lake.    Her  pleasure  was  to  roam 
Along  its  shore,  and  with  the  pebbles  toy, 
And  know  that  everything  in  life  was  joy. 

Her  favorite  haunt  a  vernal  cave  did  seem, 
Which  never  felt  the  midday  sun's  hot  gleam, 
Out  of  a  hillside  garbed  in  many  a  hue, 
'Twas  scooped  by  nature  for  a  virgin  true. 
Here  oft  she  sat  in  meditative  mood 
Filling  her  soul  with  earnest  gratitude. 

One  day  while  roaming  happily  along 
And  trilling  forth  a  mild  and  plaintive  song, 
As  far  beyond  her  usual  walk,  she  strolled, 
A  sight  immortal  did  her  eyes  behold. 


14  THE   MONIAD. 

For,  on  the  lake-shore,  washed  by  silver  spray, 

Eeflecting  all  the  sunlight's  golden  ray, 

A  yellow  shining  dust  profusely  lay. 

Now  by  its  beauty  she  was  straightway  caught, 

And  gathering  some,  her  dear  retreat  she  sought. 

Well  pleased  to  argue  she  has  ta'en  enough, 

She  in  her  bosom  placed  the  glittering  stuff. 

Anon  her  brain  did  all  rebellious  turn, 

And  with  unusual  thoughts  began  to  burn. 

Her  cave  is  reached,  while  she  with  pleasure  teems, 

Recumbent  lies,  and  passionately  dreams. 

The  King,  enamored  of  the  maids  fair  name, 

When  near  her  grotto  chanced  the  fleeing  game, 

Resolved  to  see  this  paragon  of  light 

And  win  her  as  his  subject,  as  his  right. 

He  knew  her  ways  and  silently  he  trod 

The  flowers  among,  and  o'er  the  dainty  sod, 

The  entrance  reached,  he  paused  e'en  as  he  should ; 

Then  on,  until  within  her  cave  he  stood. 

He  gazed  around  and  saw  the  glittering  woof, 

The  changing  colors  of  the  chrystal  roof, 

Which  now  like  diamonds,  now  like  rubies  shine, 

"  Oh  Heaven,"  he  muttered,  "would  all  this  were  mine  1" 


THE   MONIAD.  15 

He  saw  the  maid  in  full  robed  beauty  lie, 
The  glowing  embers  of  her  trance  close  by. 
Her  murmurs  reach  his  much  too  willing  ears, 
He  thrills  at  this,  and  joys  at  all  he  hears. 
He  sees  at  once,  some  potent  love  does  press 
Upon  her  brain,  and  all  her  soul  possess. 
He  should  arouse  her  and  her  credit  save, 
But  still  he  gazes  and  becomes  her  slave. 

Reclining  on  a  lowly  couch  of  flowers, 
Made  by  herself  in  former  idle  hours, 
She  seemed  to  yield  to  that  innate  delight, 
Which  lovers  seek,  when  they  prolong  the  Night. 
He  sees  her  clasp  her  hands  and  trembling  sigh, 
Then,  yearning,  reach  for  something  that  is  by. 
Again  he  hears  the  fevered  lips  disclose, 
The  secret  flame  that  in  her  bosom  glows. 
He  sees  her  pangs  with  satisfaction  blend, 
And  hears  a  cry,  as  all  her  visions  end. 

The  King  no  longer  his  good  sense  retains, 
Contagious  passion  burns  in  all  his  veins, 
He  can  no  more  his  mental  force  command, 
He  touches  her  with  nervous  fevered  hand. 


16  THE   MONIAD. 

She  wakes  and  blushing  from  his  arms  would  move, 
He  straight  assailed  her  with  his  urging  love. 
Half  angry  that  she  can  no  longer  feel, 
That  all  she  dreamed  had  proved  but  too  unreal, 
More  angry  that  her  passion  he  had  seen, 
Conscious  she  had  at  least  imprudent  been. 

The  King  entrusts  her  with  his  story  straight ; 
He  hears  the  maid  her  wondrous  deed  relate, 
While  each  a  vague  opinion  sudden  form, 
Debate  grows  hot  and  all  their  bodies  warm. 
He  sees  the  passion  mounting  to  her  charms 
And  eager  leaps  into  her  yielding  arms. 
Nature  cries  "hold,"  their  heated  souls  cry  "on," 
Reason  gives  way,  the  amorous  work  is  done. 
The  place  grows  brighter  to  her  languid  eyes, 
She  sees  new  wonders,  feels  new  pleasures  rise. 
She  pants  with  joys  unutterable  plan, 
And  all  her  senses  centre  on  the  man. 
Quick  leaps  the  subtle  fluid  to  her  womb 
Which  closing  did  the  glowing  seed  entomb, 
And  if  my  legend  is  to  be  believed 
Certain  it  is,  she  thereupon,  conceived. 


THE   MONIAD.  17 

Time  passed  away.    The  generative  law 
Had  drawn  nine  moons  into  its  restless  maw. 
The  pregnant  maid,  proud  of  the  load  she  bore, 
Awaited  calmly  the  delivering  hour. 

The  King  forewarned,  attended  in  his  state, 
And  cursed  the  plodding  time,  that  made  him  wait. 
Great  things  he  promised,  in  his  anxious  joy 
If  nature  favored  him  with  but  a  boy. 

The  populace  were  crowding  o'er  the  lawn, 

Waiting  the  signal  of  a  being's  dawn, 

And  led  by  interest,  along  the  shore, 

Some  several  start,  the  lake-side  to  explore ; 

They  sudden  come,  upon  the  dust  of  gold, 

And  marvelled  much  at  what  they  did  behold. 

"  Mammon,"  cried  they,  and  "  Mammon, "  cried  the 

King. 

"  A  man  child  'tis.     Let  all  my  kingdom  ring 
With  the  great  news."    The  royal  trumpets  sound 
The  note  of  gladness  to  the  people  round. 

The  King  in  wonder  stood,  long  gazing  there 
To  see  the  child's  luxuriant  golden  hair, 
2* 


18  THE   MONIAD. 

Which  with  the  blue  eyes  glowed  in  unison, 
And  seemed  to  show  the  tints  of  noonday  sun. 
The  clustering  subjects  gather  round  the  spot 
And  wish  the  noble  birthright  were  their  lot. 
They  tell  the  story  with  their  brains  surmise, 
The  monarch  listens  with  a  glad  surprise, 
And  speaks,  "  These  facts  some  recognition  claim, 
That  your  deserts,  my  joy,  no  illness  maim, 
We'll  call  him  Mammon, — Mammon  is  his  name." 

The  mother  prospered,  and  the  child  grew  strong, 
Increased  in  sense  as  years  bore  him  along ; 
Until  in  manhood's  prime  he  stood  most  fair, 
A  prince  of  beauty,  strength,  and  talents  rare. 

Of  subtle  power  were  his  virtues  made, 
He  ruled  the  King,  the  multitude  he  swayed, 
To  him  lawgivers  yielded  up  the  palm, 
The  timid  he  made  strong,  the  angry,  calm ; 
He  with  surprise,  did  all  the  limners  fill, 
They  silent  gazed  and  wondered  at  his  skill ; 
Anon  the  sculptors  hailed  him  as  their  own, 
And  wept  delighted  with  his  moving  stone  ; 
So  deeply  versed  in  alchemetic  lore, 
'Twas  said  the  dead,  he  could  to  life  restore  ; 


THE   MONIAD.  19 

In  all  things  leader,  chieftan  in  the  sport, 

Yet  still  the  brightest  soldier  in  the  court. 

His  wit  and  virtue  high  examples  were, 

To  test  his  courage,  none  there  was  to  dare ; 

His  solid  strength,  agility  combined, 

A  whole  land  yielded  to  his  wondrous  mind. 

The  people  with  their  pressing  love  overwrought 
For  him  some  testimonial  honor  sought. 
One  reasoned,  they  a  chiefship  should  create, 
Whose  dignities  should  top  his  present  state ; 
And  one  a  gift  of  value  would  present, 
One  parchment  scroll,  or  verses  reverent. 
Till  all  agreed  for  one  of  such  renown, 
The  only  fitting  present  were  a  crown  ; 
And  with  it  high  potential  honors  give 
With  him  to  die,  or  with  him  always  live  ; 
They  thought  of  arts,  of  happiness,  of  health, 
But  made  him  monarch  o'er  the  realm  of  Wealth. 

Then  filled  with  zeal  the  people  did  combine 
To  build  a  palace  that  should  be  a  shrine. 
Among  the  giant  range  of  towering  hills, 
They  chose  a  spot  which  their  conception  fills. 


20  THE   MONIAD. 

A  mount,  superbly  swelling  to  the  sky, 
"Which,  o'er  its  fellows  looked  most  royally, 
From  whose  proud  summit  one  would  gaze  in  vain 
To  find  a  higher  in  the  endless  chain ; 
So  stood  it  like  a  monarch  of  the  strand, 
Or  sentinel,  who  awed  the  bursting  land. 
The  sloping  sides  in  varying  green  were  drest, 
Now  here  and  there  by  forests  huge  opprest, 
Where  grown  leviathans,  the  stately  trees, 
Nodded  responsive  to  the  powerful  breeze. 
Around  its  base  a  winding  river  swept, 
Which  rose  in  foam  as  o'er  the  rocks  it  leapt, 
Or  smoothly  flowed  a  gentle  course  along, 
Sweet  gurgling  low  the  soft  meandering  song. 
From  side  to  side,  from  base  up  to  the  crest, 
With  fruits  and  flowers  the  whole  mount  was  drest ; 
Like  to  a  breast  of  nature,  rounded,  fair, 
All  bursting  with  the  juices  clustering  there. 

Anon  a  change  came  o'er  the  lovely  scene 
And  busy  hands  usurped  the  shades  serene. 
The  clank  of  hammer  and  the  smithy's  glare, 
Disturbed  the  breeze  and  glowed  upon  the  air. 
The  populace  intent  on  their  design 
Toiled  upward  loaded  from  the  granite  mine. 


THE   MONIAD.  21 

Man,  beast,  and  science,  all  their  strength  impart, 
To  build  a  triumph  of  enduring  art. 

Ere  many  moons  their  silent  lustres  shed, 

A  royal  palace  reared  its  regal  head. 

Without,  composed  of  various  colored  blocks 

Polished  to  beauty ;  the  underlay  of  rocks 

Which  the  foundation  formed,  were  cut  so  fine, 

They  seemed  but  carvings  from  a  precious  mine. 

Of  shining  ebony  the  doors  were  made, 

The  panels  all  with  satin-wood  inlaid ; 

The  rosewood  furnished  out  each  window  frame, 

While  box  relieved  what  otherwise  were  tame. 

Along  the  eaves  the  precious  metals  glowed, 

Their  various  tints  arranged  in  curious  mode, 

And  gems  outrivalling  the  famous  one 

Of  Landak,  from  the  cornice,  peerless  shone. 

Within  'twas  like  a  fairy  scene.    It  seemed 
As  if  the  Goddess  Beauty,  one  day  dreamed 
Of  Pregnancy,  and  joying  much  thereat 
In  pleasurable  mood  long  studying  sat, 
To  show  the  world  the  riches  of  her  sense 
And  flood  some  Palace  with  the  evidence. 


22  THE   MONIAD. 

The  hall  adorned  with  many  a  sparkling  shell 

That  of  the  distant  waters,  loving  tell. 

For  though  the  chords  were  dry,  still  concord  clings 

To  their  rich  throats,  and  each  forever  sings. 

Here  blooming  roses  threw  a  sweet  perfume, 

There  stately  lillies  almost  filled  the  room, 

While  feathered  songsters  in  their  revelries 

Chanted  the  praise  of  birds  of  Paradise ; 

Here  sensuous  marbles  met  the  passionate  gaze 

As  if  to  surfeit  feelings  which  they  raise ; 

Here  gorgeous  pictures  by  the  hand  of  art 

The  various  scenes  of  life  and  joy  impart; 

One,  of  a  woman,  in  each  feature  fair, 

The  sun  in  dalliance  with  her  golden  hair 

Seems  only  to  enrobe  her,  while  her  hands 

Scatter  profusely,  fruits,  and  stocks,  and  lands. 

Ah  me !  how  many  are  the  bursting  sighs 

When  but  are  gazed  on,  those  full  rounded  thighs ; 

What  threats  are  made  of  demonian  harms 

When  seen  forever  all  her  other  charms. 

The  artisans  now  gaze,  from  work  they  turn, 

Then  work,  then  gaze,  and  gaze,  and  work,  and  burn. 

And  so  throughout  on  everything  was  writ 

Art,  science,  luxury,  learning,  sensuous  wit. 


THE   MONIAD.  23 

So  stood  the  fabric  when  the  work  was  done, 
It  shone  upon  the  crest,  like  to  another  sun. 

From  every  land  assembled  each  a  host, 
With  thought  of  Mammon's  honor  uppermost. 
In  various  garbs,  with  several  tongues  they  came, 
And  some  with  meekness,  some  with  hearts  of  flame. 
With  pomp  and  splendor  came  the  world's  renown 
To  raise  to  power,  and  a  king  to  crown. 

Nature  glowed  forth  in  many  a  fulsome  ray, 
Combining  beauties  to  adorn  the  day. 
Sure  ne'er  had  man  a  higher,  lowlier  lot, 
Than  he  who  reigned  upon  that  charming  spot ; 
Who  in  the  morn,  was  man,  a  blessed  thing, 
And  in  the  evening  King  o'er  every  King. 

The  populace,  enamored  at  the  sight, 

Of  so  much  glory,  splendor,  and  of  might, 

Were  sudden  filled  with  that  insanity, 

Which  culminated  in  Idolatry. 

And  so  they  bowed  them  down  on  hands  and  knees, 

Forgot  their  God,  and  Mammon  swore  to  please. 

God  in  in  his  wrath  a  fierce  decree  then  hurled, 

And  scattered  Mammon's  votaries  through  the  world. 


PART  SECOND. 


Address  to  America  at  the  close  of  the  War  of  Independence 
by  the  poor  of  Europe — Increase  of  Mammon's  power — 
Some  names  great  in  history — An  apology — A  quick  leap 
to  1857 — The  broken  bank — A  plain  truth  plainly  told — 
A  glance  at  confederates — George  Peabody — Female 
sharps — The  followers  of  humbug — A  silly  suicide — The 
Congressional  gambler — A  double  legacy — A  plea  for  the 
player  and  a  hint  for  the  clergy — A  bad  husband — The 
deceptions  of  beauty— Representative  distillers — The 
weak  dreamer — Clay  and  Lambert — Villianous  croakers 
— Commercial  sharks — The  true  story  of  a  great  decep- 
tion— The  policy  dealing  banker — The  gold  room  habitues 
— The  President — Information  of  a  fool — Vigor  versus 
slime— Active  bankers — A  surfeited  heathen — An  appeal 
— A  youth — A  glance  at  the  season  of  prosperity — A 
tripped  financier — A  desire  to  be  poor — A  character. 

AMERICA  !  to  th.ee  with  longing  eyes 

We  look  for  succor,  and  our  spirits  rise. 

Thy  wars  have  made  thee  dearer  to  our  hearts 

Than  all  the  gold  in  Britain's  lordly  marts ; 

For  this  is  used  our  chains  to  multiply, 

While  those  prepare  us  for  delivery. 

For  thee  in  patience  still  the  load  we  bear, 

Content  our  children,  thy  abode  shall  share. 


THE   MONIAD.  25 

We  know  thou  'rt  poor,  thy  credit  almost  down, 
Yet  Morris  lives,  to  lift  thee  to  renown. 
We  have  no  gold  to  compass  our  desires, 
And  still  we  labor  at  our  cheerless  fires. 
Oh !  how  we  long  the  time  to  quickly  speed, 
When  we  can  see  thy  Washington  indeed, 
Pour  out  our  praises  on  his  noble  head, 
And  follow  where  his  daring  footsteps  led. 
We  talk  of  Putnam,  Warren  and  the  rest, 
Till  holy  fires  glow  within  our  breast ; 
We  burn  to  see  thy  forests,  feel  the  wind 
That  Freedom  blows,  o'er  all  the  human  kind. 
There's  room  enough  for  all  the  million  poor 
Who  shiver  in  our  mines.    We  will  endure 
A  little  longer  yet,  much  more  content 
To  go  as  men,  than  be  as  paupers  sent. 
The  stripes  upon  thy  banner  which  we  see 
Keflect  our  wrongs  and  foul  degeneracy. 
But  when  assembled  'neath  your  azured  stars 
We'll  sing  aloud,  our  wounds  will  all  be  scars. 
No  more  the  blood-wet  lash  will  score  our  backs, 
No  more  the  stretching  on  the  deadly  racks, 
No  more  the  guillotine  our  sons  behead, 
Because  in  Freedom's  ranks  they  boldly  led ; 
3 


26  THE   MONIAD. 

No  more  the  dungeons,  or  starvations  thong, 
Because  we  happen  to  but  think  a  wrong. 
All  these  will  end.     Thou  goddess,  Liberty ! 
With  righteous  hand,  unshackled,  strong  and  free, 
Strikes  off  our  chains  i'  the  teeth  of  Tyranny. 

The  million  from  European  dens  so  spake, 
And  rotten  thrones,  sick  brains  began  to  quake. 
The  Western  world  the  end  of  Empire  told, 
And  monarchs  feared  their  subjects  to  behold. 
Why  did  not  George  believe  the  words  of  Burke  ? 
Why  in  his  brain  did  no  just  reason  lurk  ? 
The  world  must  still  move  onward ;  he  who  thinks 
To  check  its  course,  beneath  the  surface  sinks. 
Man's  will,  no  more  controls  the  moving  zones, 
Than  crawling  worms  command  his  reeking  bones. 

Mammon,  with  fortunes  changing  as  the  wind, 
Had  still  advanced,  as  age  on  age  declined. 
His  prowess  wakened  all  the  living  hosts, 
On  every  land  a  giant  grip  he  boasts. 
O'er  Afrie's  sands  his  shining  influence  grows, 
Displayed  in  rings  within  the  painted  nose. 
On  Asia's  plains  the  diadems  now  gleam, 
And  every  river  is  a  pearly  stream. 


THE   MONIAD.  27 

All  Europe  yields  to  fascinating  lays 
Which  tone  the  heart  to  sing  our  Mammon's  praise. 
Yet  all  agree  that  near  St.  Paul's  great  dome 
Our  monarch  revels  in  his  dearest  home. 

Britain  had  failed  to  bring  the  Eagle  down, 
When  a  race  thundered  at  high  George's  crown. 
Too  happy  he,  a  useless  war  to  end, 
Lest  rebel  arts  should  all  his  kingdom  rend. 
Our  Henry  had  resigned  his  civic  robe, 
His  words  enlightened  half  the  startled  globe. 
Heroic  Jones  had  swept  the  British  main, 
Pursued  by  cruisers,  but  pursued  in  vain ; 
And  Lafayette  his  valiant  blood  had  shed, 
Risked  all,  and  caught  the  laurel  to  his  head ; 
While  Putnam  every  sense  of  reason  shocks, 
By  dashing  boldly  down  the  Stamford  rocks. 

How  joy  now  trembles  o'er  each  noble  name, 
Whose  glowing  embers  light  the  fount  of  Fame. 
What  praises  hover  on  the  willing  tongue, 
Which  long  ago  the  poets  should  have  sung ; 
How  Adams  boldly  threw  the  gauntlet  down, 
That  shook  the  jewels  of  an  empty  crown  ; 


25  THE   MONIAD. 

How  Hamilton's  and  Jay's  unfettered  will, 
Our  credit  saved  by  their  financial  skill. 
Of  Pike  and  Perry,  Morgan  and  the  rest, 
Who  blaze  triumphant  on  our  nation's  crest. 

To  press  but  lightly  on  historic  page, 
To  leave  the  past  and  show  the  present  age, 
Thou  kindly  muse,  forgive  the  coward  pen, 
Which  overleaps  the  names  of  daring  men! 
But  grant  the  present  shall  not  darkly  blast 
The  sacred  memories  of  an  honored  past ! 

Buchanan  !  recreant  to  the  people's  will, 
What  serpent  nestled  in  your  bosom  still, 
When  bleeding  Kansas,  struggling  to  be  free, 
Yielded  to  dogmas  of  your  heresy  ? 
And  while  Nebraska  trembled  'neath  your  frown, 
Expanded  credits  bore  the  country  down. 

City  of  Penn  !  thy  name  was  draped  in  gloom, 
First  to  suspend  and  last  of  all  resume  ; 
The  fault  not  thine.    ;Tis  certain  men  we  thank, 
Who  shook  the  public  faith  and  robbed  the  bank. 


THE    MONIAD.  29 

See,  stately ne,  slow  move  along, 

His  head  erect,  as  though  he  ne'er  did  wrong. 
He  awed  the  thousands  till  he  held  their  purse ; 
The  Bank  he  broke  and  wakened  many  a  curse. 
So  rears  the  snake  his  venomed  crest  on  high, 
While  gathering  horrors  glitter  in  his  eye ; 
He  pauses  to  admire  his  victim's  dread, 
Then  quick  uncoils  and  rattling,  strikes  him  dead. 
Once,  he  among  financial  men  renowned, 
For  banking  ideas  not  exactly  sound, 
By  shrewder  men  was  calmly  taken  in, 
While  N-wh-11  plucks,  and  Tony,  Tommy  grin. 
His  ignorance  we  might  perhaps  overlook, 
His  confidential  strut  perhaps  e'en  brook ; 
But  for  his  manners  to  the  sorrowing  mass, 
Who  in  funereal  weeds  so  solemn  pass, 
The  widows  whom  his  lowness  did  betray, 
The  orphans  pittance  meanly  wiped  away, 
As  one  would  cleanse  a  picture  from  a  slate, 
So  he  destroyed  their  hopes,  and  damned  their  fate. 
For  this  will  no  forgiveness  bless  his  toil, 
Who  lords  it  o'er  his  own  New  Jersey  soil ; 
For  this,  anathemas,  both  loud  and  deep, 
Ring  through  his  halls  and  o'er  his  forests  sweep. 
3* 


30  THE   MONIAD. 

Those  others,  too,  confederate  to  his  plan, 

Were  each  below  the  standard  of  a  man ; 

For  who,  that  ever  heard  the  widow  sob, 

Would  plan  in  affluence  all  the  poor  to  rob  ? 

What  heaps  of  gold  into  their  hands  were  slid, 

And  in  the  banker's  closet  safely  hid ; 

The  closet  which  so  touched  a  Child's  fond  pride, 

Which  quickly  vanished  when  the  old  man  died. 

We  understand.     The  theory  is  out. 

Let  every  clerk  now  for  them  raise  a  shout. 

Their  foul  suspicions  take  an  ugly  root 

From  their  own  sad  crimes.   Forth  they  quickly  shoot, 

Till  their  young  men  are  blossoming  with  theft, 

111  got  they  feared,  to  be  by  ill  bereft. 

Must  they  who  saw  forever  hold  their  tongue, 
While  the  chief  actors  go  abroad  unhung? 
If  riches  can  excuse  their  hideous  wrong, 
Let  poverty  forgive  this  harmless  song. 
Content  Fll  sing  without  their  base  alloy, 
As  long  as  they  those  reeking  gains  enjoy. 
One  day  will  conscience  stalk  before  their  gaze, 
To  quake  the  knee  and  set  the  eye  aglaze ; 
Till  comes  the  arbiter  whom  Fate  controls, 
To  justice  send  and  sudden  damn  their  souls. 


THE    MONIAD.  31 

How  blest  is  he,  who  in  our  memory  lives, 

Who  getting  still,  yet  liberally  gives. 

His  soul  now  mounts  above  the  sordid  plan 

That  moulds  the  actions  of  a  selfish  man. 

With  tearful  eyes,  the  scene  of  want  he  views, 

Nor  can  he  once  the  keen  appeal  refuse. 

He  sees  the  workmen  bending  'neath  their  loads, 

The  ragged  cyprians  clustering  in  the  roads  ; 

He  wanders  into  courts  and  filthy  lanes, 

He  sees  the  poor  and  lives  in  all  their  pains. 

He  melts  at  all  he  sees,  away  he  turns, 

And  nobly,  lavish  benefaction  learns. 

His  whitened  locks  my  veneration  claim, 
But  more  his  virtue,  and  his  generous  aim ; 
And  if  his  story  were  but  fitly  told, 
We  then  should  see  it  4rit  in  solid  gold. 
Long  parted  from  his  mother  land  and  kin, 
He  yearns  to  see  his  native  home  again. 
His  praises  gush  from  every  living  mouth, 
His  kindly  millions  reach  a  bleeding  South. 
So  Fortune,  her  most  favored  son  beguiles, 
While  Britain  weeps  and  all  Columbia  smiles. 


32  THE    MONIAD. 

Danvers !  his  name  let  all  thy  youth  inspire, 
Where  noble  men  are  sons,  he  is  the  sire. 

How  frail  tfie  living  of  those  female  toads, 

Who  hop  from  place  to  place  along  the  roads. 

On  generous  bounty  they  alone  depend, 

Yet  all  the  while  to  riches  they  pretend. 

Their  nephew  this,  a  railroad  president, 

Their  neice  is  marvellously  affluent ; 

The  world's  decrees  their  daughter's  claims  sustain, 

As  brilliant  belles,  they  over  Fashion  reign. 

While  triumphs  grace  their  sons  most  gallant  arms, 

And  Fortune  revels  in  their  warlike  charms. 

But  strange  to  say,  spite  of  their  silken  dress, 

They  lose  a  purse,  and  are  in  some  distress. 

Would  some  kind  soul,  the  hapless  to  befriend, 

Just  a  few  dollars  for  the  pre^nt  lend  ? 

Cape  May  and  Saratoga  both  have  roared, 

To  see  the  shifts  they  make  to  pay  their  board, 

While  sympathies  of  verdant  men  arrange 

To  keep  these  sharpers  in  their  pocket  change. 

Shrewd,  sleek  and  modest,  they  now  praise,  now  blame, 

And  still  successful,  play  their  little  game. 

Of  pleasant  manners,  and  with  naught  to  vex, 

Save  keen  detection  by  their  own  sweet  sex. 


THE   MONIAD.  33 

Oh,  woman !  why  expose  their  idle  plan  ? 
They'd  never  do  it  if  they  had  a  man. 
But  lacking  him,  they  soon  imperfect  grow, 
And  pushed  from  heaven,  seek  the  place  below. 

The  man  who  has  a  stock  of  active  brains 
May  tax  them  ne'er  so  hard,  so  he  maintains 
Controlment  o'er  their  sense,  the  truth  it  is, 
He  need  not  care,  for  still  the  brains  are  his. 
The  farmer,  who  a  crop  each  year  demands, 
Still  holds  possession  of  his  yielding  lands ; 
Day  after  day  the  riverside  is  sought, 
From  the  same  nook  unnumbered  fish  are  caught ; 
While  the  lone  shepherd,  craving  a  small  boon, 
Punctures  a  reed  and  plays  you  many  a  tune. 
The  nook  remains,  the  finster  eager  bites, 
One  tune  is  gone,  but  still  the  next  delights. 
'Tis  thus  the  people  seek  the  trysting  ground, 
Where  Humbug  pours  its  cooling  liquid  round. 
Bathed  in  the  sweets  of  an  ambrosial  race, 
They  yield  their  purses  with  becoming  grace. 
Each  visit  still  subservient  to  the  last, 
No  lesson  learned  by  teachings  of  the  past. 
So  they  grope  on  and  blindly  hug  the  god, 
Still  list  the  syren  air,  still  clutch  the  rod. 


34  THE   MONIAD. 

Still  see  in  Helmbold  but  a  genius  rare, 
Still  praise  their  Beecher  with  his  flowing  hair, 
Still  follow  every  fickle  founded  change 
That  Fashions  urge,  however  ill  or  strange. 

Poor  Rufus'  horrors  undermine  his  health, 

He  sickens  when  he  thinks  of  all  his  wealth. 

Harsh,  darkling  visions  his  poor  brain  now  haunt, 

He  dreads  that  one  day  he  will  come  to  want. 

And  mad  to  end,  the  misery  so  rife, 

He  ties  the  rope  and  launches  out  of  life. 

What  can  we  hope  from  those  who  make  our  laws, 
Who  at  no  bloody  deed  would  wince  or  pause ; 
From  morn  till  eve,  from  eve  to  weary  day, 
Used  to  the  curses  of  the  theft,  Roulette. 
Ourselves  the  cause,  what  else  can  be  to  blame, 
If  we  impeach  our  honor,  blast  our  fame. 
Thus  high  constituents  the  bruiser  calls 
From  Faro  sittings,  to  Congressional  Halls. 
When  base-got  money  places  gamblers  there 
The  nation  totters,  let  its  friends  beware. 

Poor  Oxenford,  with  fever  lying  low, 

When  Fortune  her  neglect  ne'er  failed  to  show, 


THE   MONIAD.  35 

As  if  to  atone  for  former  negligence, 
And  for  his  sickness  yield  a  recompense, 
Not  satisfied,  one  legacy  shall  do, 
Opens  her  hand,  and  showers  upon  him  two. 

The  actor  labors  and  reward  obtains, 
Who  powerfully  o'er  each  passion  reigns. 
So  Forrest  comes.     Permit  a  friendly  word 
For  his  abused  class,  too  seldom  heard. 
Now  why?    Because  a  weaker  man  we  trace 
Falling  behind  and  doomed  to  lose  the  race ; 
Should  we  assemble  all  our  savage  might 
To  vent  at  him,  and  stop  his  weary  flight ; 
Then  o'er  his  undefended  head  proclaim 
Him  the  sole  recreant  of  the  human  name, 
While  tongues  abusive,  pulpit  curses  loud, 
Social  reproaches  thick  upon  him  crowd. 
Why  will  no  one  among  the  praying  host 
Repent  his  hardness,  and  take  back  his  boast, 
Risk  his  good  name,  adopt  a  noble  stand, 
And  take  the  falling  actor  by  the  hand  ? 
Religion  shuns  because  her  parsons  do, 
The  mass  because,  she  'gainst  it,  locks  her  pew. 
Here  is  the  reason  why  the  stage  is  shorn 
Of  half  those  beauties  which  with  it  were  born. 


36  THE    MONIAD. 

Wisely  conceived,  kin  to  the  church  and  state, 

'Twas  sent  to  humanize  and  elevate. 

Why  has  the  fires  of  inspired  art 

Combined  with  Poesy,  to  make  at  part  ? 

If  Heaven  were  so  far  to  good  adverse, 

As  in  a  moment  to  design  and  curse  ; 

If  other  trades  were  free  from  spot  or  taint, 

And  every  artisan  a  blameless  saint, 

Religion  might  with  reason  raise  the  cry, 

That  blasts  fair  fame  and  stabs  humanity. 

But  as  it  is,  the  clergy  are  not  free, 

The  worst  examples  in  their  robes  we  see. 

Who  reads  of  Grant's  seductive  fall  from  grace 

But  would  the  brazen  sensual  facts  efface. 

One  Williams  too,  who  beat  his  child  to  death, 

And  laughed  exulting  o'er  its  latest  breath. 

While  reverend  Howe,  meekly  whining  cit, 

Debauches  children  where  his  sermon's  writ. 

From  Paris  now,  the  news  comes  glowing  on, 

A  ballet  girl  the  prize  for  virtue  won. 

These  facts  should  parry  each  rash  parson's  thrust, 

While  papers  fatten  on  the  preacher's  lust. 

What  demon  lives  within  the  sordid  hearts, 
That  like  the  vultures  on  the  swallows  dart  ? 


THE   MONIAD.  37 

Which  takes  a  dear  wife's  portion  to  its  care, 

Confines  her  person  in  a  madhouse  lair. 

Urging  upon  the  world,  the  feeble  plea, 

A  born  affliction  of  insanity. 

What  meaner  crime  save  drugged  seduction  lives  ? 

It  merits  greater  pains  than  Hell  e'er  gives. 

Domestic  Fraud !  beware  your  coming  fate, 

Amend  your  errors  ere  it  be  too  late  ; 

Remove  the  suffering  woman  from  that  place 

Which  not  her  name,  but  all  your  aims  disgrace. 

Think  of  the  dread  which  all  her  soul  appals, 

While  living  fearfully  within  those  walls. 

How  would  you  rave,  and  curse  at  Heaven  and  Hell, 

If  for  an  hour  bound  within  that  cell  ? 

Then  pity  take,  your  wedded  one  release, 

Restore  her  body,  and  your  soul  to  peace. 

Or,  yet  see  vengeance  in  the  future  trace, 

A  Fate  like  hers,  to  bring  you  face  to  face  ; 

While  conscience,  with  a  huge  upbraiding  hand, 

Flames  at  your  brain,  with  his  destroying  brand. 

As  when  some  riper  beauty  meets  our  gaze, 
Assailing  passion  in  a  myriad  ways ; 


88  THE    MONIAD. 

When  aye  we  feel  the  tributary  glow, 

We  own  the  power  we  ne'er  before  did  know. 

Like  a  dissolving  shadow  of  the  past, 

The  lesser  rivals  beauty  cannot  last. 

The  charms  that  late  we  sung  insipid  seem, 

We  gaze  and  all  the  past  is  but  a  dream. 

We  gaze  and  all  the  tender  things  once  thought, 

Are  blotted  from  the  page  so  often  sought. 

We  from  the  softer  passion  loathing  turn, 

And  seek  the  love  our  manhood  cannot  spurn. 

We  sink  ourselves  to  win  a  lovely  arm, 

To  find  perhaps  it  is  an  only  charm  ; 

Or  oft  apostrophize  a  rounded  form, 

And  after  hear  the  terrors  of  a  storm ; 

An  ankle  will  at  times  our  Fate  control, 

And  many  a  kick  rewards  our  trusting  soul. 

We  yield  our  hearts  up  to  a  glowing  eye, 

And  find  we  please,  but  cannot  satisfy. 

So  should  we  study  with  our  better  sense 

For  that  which  brings  at  last  life's  recompense. 

So  should  we  parry  each  deceitful  thrust, 

Whose  stab,  ambrosial,  makes  us  bite  the  dust. 

Fernando  Wo-d,  a  model  thing  does  live 
Of  those  who  poison  to  the  masses  give. 


THE   MONIAD.  39 

In  thirty-six,  bad  whisky  from  his  stores, 
Three  cents  per  glass,  he  sold  to  stevedores. 
He  capped  his  actions,  ever  meanly  bad, 
By  charging  them  with  what  they  never  had. 
So  some  men  rise,  and  eat  congressional  nftals, 
While  their  poor  victim  in  the  poorhouse  reels. 
Yet  multitudes  will  on  their  friends  enjoin, 
A  vote  that  shows  the  color  of  his  coin ; 
While  amorous  voices  raise  the  fulsome  strain, 
In  love  with  his,  and  their  prospective  gain. 
Is  this  indeed  America's  bright  hope, 
Which  elevates  by  wrong,  and  not  by  rope  ? 
Why  does  not  reason  seize  the  frantic  mass 
Which  should  unite  to  crush  the  dotard  brass  ? 
Pale  virtue !  kindly  emblem  of  the  poor, 
No  longer  statesmen,  thus  bestained  endure  ; 
But  raise  your  hand,  and  strike  a  deadly  blow, 
To  send  him  to  his  customers  below. 
Or  through  the  rank  diseases,  gangrene's  prize, 
Drag  his  poor  body,  till  he  howling  dies. 

Is  this  the  dawn  of  but  a  sleeping  mind  ? 
A  feather  started  by  the  passing  wind  ? 
Are  these  the  throes  of  one  sad  withered  heart  ? 
That  I  so  deeply,  shiveringly,  start 


40  THE   MONIAD. 

When  but  a  word  is  mentioned ;  why  should  Fame 

Whirl  through  my  brain,  yet  seem  to  shroud  my  name? 

Are  mine  the  taunts  of  but  an  empty  soul 

That  echoes  plain  the  bell's  distressing  toll? 

Or,  are  these  maims  sent  from  an  angry  God  ? 

To  teach  the  end  of  all  is  but  the  sod. 

So  Wilhelm  mutters,  in  his  waking  dreams, 

Lacking  the  nerve  with  which  true  courage  teems. 

He  fears  to  stem  the  current  of  suspense, 

In  poor  philosophy  he  clothes  his  sense. 

While  weak  regrets  and  sickly  fancies  steal 

O'er  his  mild  brain,  and  all  his  aims  reveal. 

He  fears  to  lift  the  axe,  lest  he  be  hurt ; 

He  shuns  hard  work,  because  he  hates  the  dirt; 

And  so  lives  on,  while  self  imposed  complaint. 

Wears  on  his  heart,  till  all  his  senses  faint. 

Buried,  we  find  his  epitaph  repeats, 

How  want  of  manhood,  talent  fair,  defeats. 

The  starry  records  of  a  towering  mind, 
Whose  massive  pressure  moulds  the  unrefined, 
Augment  the  general  knowledge  of  the  State, 
And  show  the  source  whence  virtues  emanate. 
So  the  fine  outlines  of  a  roasted  pig, 
Whose  smoking  carcass  tempts  some  gouty  whig. 


THE    MONIAD.  41 

Grandly  fill  up  the  channels  to  content, 

And  mock  at  Banting's  quiet  sentiment. 

The  inequality  of  flesh  is  shown, 

One  lacks  the  stuff,  that  shields  another's  bone ; 

These  show  the  warriors  known  as  belly,  brain, 

Our  Clay's  great  loss  is  but  our  Lambert's  gain. 

Eternal  croakers  misery  create. 
They  with  the  nasty,  and  the  dismal  mate ; 
On  acids  suckled,  too,  they  frown  on  all ; 
On  fat,  and  lean,  on  middling,  great,  and  small. 
And  dinners,  biscuit,  women,  music,  wine, 
To  shades  below,  they  will  in  turn  consign. 
One  day's  too  warm,  another  much  too  cold, 
They  wish  for  age  when  young,  for  youth  when  old. 
In  disappointment's  owl-surrounding  mire, 
They  pant,  expecting,  shortly,  to  expire. 
They  preach  of  tjieir  misfortunes,  curse  their  debts, 
Run  a  whole  catalogue  of  wild  regrets. 
What  they  but  praise,  all  the  world  else  condemns  ; 
All  gold  is  gilt,  and  pebbles  precious  gems. 
They  grunt,  and  groan,  and  snarl,  with  sickly  scoffs, 
Their  season  ends  with  dry  dyspeptic  coughs. 
4* 


42  THE    MONIAD. 

These  misanthropes  are  but  examples  sent 

To  teach  mankind  the  hells  of  discontent. 

Expect  the  tiger  at  the  highest  reach, 

Of  his  fell  bound  to  sudden  stop  and  screech ; 

The  lioness,  when  robbed  she  is  of  young, 

To  vent  her  vengeance  with  a  licking  tongue  ; 

The  hungry  wolf,  just  when  his  careless  prey 

Is  in  his  clutch,  expect  to  give  it  away ; 

But  never  such  a  folly  think  of  then, 

As  look  for  mercy  from  the  thriving  men, 

Who  pale  Necessity  still  keep  in  thrall, 

Till  interest  reaches  principal  and  all. 

Such  sharks  have  pierced  till  honored  credit  wanes, 

Scuttling  the  fortunes  industry  obtains. 

They  hover  near  you,  bow,  depress,  elate, 

But  in  your  ears,  they  shriek  the  highest  rate ; 

They  lead  you  by  a  soft  and  silken  thread, 

But  sudden  draw  it,  severing  your  head. 

With  loving  slime,  they  lick  you  to  a  pulp, 

Till  body,  soul,  and  assets,  down  they  gulp ; 

And  such  is  Frank,  who  pays  the  very  least 

To  save  his  soul,  by  bribing  some  sick  priest. 

What  subtle  plan  the  public  so  deceived  ? 
What  journal  printed  all  the  mass  believed  ? 


THE   MONIAD.  43 

Whose  lie  from street  sent  to  "Washington, 

Returned  "  official,"  startling  every  one  ? 

That  Johnson  propositions  had  writ  out 

Pronouncing  Congress  but  a  rabble  rout. 

What  trio  waits,  and  while  the  trap  is  set, 

Counts  on  the  Christian  profit  it  will  get  ? 

Whose  features  show  no  traces  of  the  guile 

That  deeply  lurks  beneath  the  friendly  smile  ? 

And  locked  in  the  embrace  of  toady  cliques, 

Now  flourish  blossoms,  books,  and  sometimes  bricks. 

Who  stood  behind  the  stall  at four, 

And  to  the  truth  of  all  the  letter  swore  ? 

Who  urged  their  friends  to  quickly  purchase  gold, 

While  (busy  bees)  their  own  they  tireless  sold  ? 

Who  added  half  a  million  to  the  pile 

Already  towering  by  transactions  vile  ? 

Who  picked  the  pocket,  plucked  the  trader  sore, 

Unearthed  a  hoax,  to  make  a  little  more  ? 

If  you  would  know  who  coined  the  dirty  lie, 
Leave  old  High  Road  and  with  a  cautious  eye, 
Go  gaze  upon  the  busy  moneyed  street, 
And  note  the  granite  pave  beneath  your  feet ; 
But  stammer  not,  the  name  in  wild  surprise 
That  o'er  the  door,  in  marble  letters  rise ; 


44  THE   MONIAD. 

Three  open  arches  tempt  the  public  in 

To  yield  in  "  shaves"  a  portion  of  its  tin ; 

Four  stories  tower  to  the  clouded  heaven, 

The  numbers  added  make  the  mystic  seven. 

Three  brothers  there  the  business  control, 

Of  various  feature,  but  of  kindred  soul. 

The  youngest  much  too  lubberly  to  pet, 

Rejoices  in  the  cognomen  of  "  Get." 

The  second  of  a  lusty  frame  too  vain, 

Is  still  recipient  of  the  title  "Gain." 

While  last  and  least  of  all  the  sordid  breed, 

The  eldest  flourishes  the  name  of  "  Greed." 

These  brothers  now  shield  well  each  other's  fames, 

Greed,  Gain  and  Get  will  do  for  Christian  names. 

If  you  this  place  these  brothers  can  descry, 

You  know  not  yet  but  half  as  much  as  I ; 

For  other  schemes  they  cunning  have  devised 

To  cheat  the  world,  though  all  the  world  despised. 

One  Rob-nson,  is  still  the  very  same, 
As  when  he  blasted  Wilmington's  fair  name. 
The  knowing  wonder  when  they  see  him  rise, 
To  Third  street  house  from  dealing  policies. 
Too  stupid  far  and  mean  beyond  his  age, 
He's  only  shrewd  when  Folly  is  the  rage. 


THE   MONIAD.  45 

So  far  advanced  in  intellectual  heat, 

That  he  can  play  at  jack  straws  with  his  feet. 

Now  'cross  the  street  with  some  weak  thought  bestrid, 

He  quakes  the  gold  room  with  a  paltry  bid ; 

When  Morris  frights  him  with  a  voice  of  doom, 

And  Hobby  drops  his  tail  and  leaves  the  room. 

He  knows  that  all  do  think  him  but  an  ass, 

And  seeks  to  hide  the  fact  behind  more  brass. 

But  all  the  bronze  in  earth  or  sea,  or  air 

Could  never  shield  from  sight  his  vacant  stare ; 

Not  all  the  instruments  of  lordly  tone, 

Could  drown  those  brays  thalj  now  are  his  alone ; 

And  though  in  seas  of  cloth  he  disappears, 

He  ne'er  can  hide  his  big  and  hairy  ears. 

One  day  the  meanest  servitor  who  fell, 
Who  but  the  scum  of  earth  escorts  to  Hell ; 
When  trade  does  feebly,  irritably,  lag, 
Will  pick  him  up  and  thrust  him  in  his  bag, 
Then  such  a  tale  of  fraud  will  tireless  spin, 
That  Satan  holds  his  nose  and  takes  him  in. 
Poor  John,  as  years  increase  upon  your  head, 
Perhaps  some  brains  may  yet  to  thee  be  wed ; 
But  much  I  fear  thy  progeny's  estate, 
While  nothing  but  abortions  grace  your  pate. 


46  THE   MONIAD. 

Behold  the  gold  room  operators,  shout, 
And  jump,  and  howl,  and  toss  their  hands  about ; 
Now  glare  the  eyes,  and  now  stands  out  each  hair, 
They  flush  with  gain,  and  now  with  losses  stare. 
There  Wo-d,  the  Sunday  writer,  as  they  say, 
Feels  his  moustache  throughout  the  busy  day  ; 
Condoles  with  all  upon  each  chilling  loss, 
And  confidential  nods  to  baldy  Cross ; 
Long  Edward  reaches  like  a  Poplar  tree 
Into  the  regions  only  travelers  see, 
Behold  him  stretch  his  long  and  fleshy  arm, 
His  belly  bend  with  all  of  beauty's  charm ; 
How  like  a  kitten,  chubby,  plump,  and  fair, 
His  playful  antics  wake  the  sordid  air. 
All-whatVhis-name,  he  of  the  peaked  nose, 
More  noisy  with  the  dear  excitement  grows  ; 
Young  William  sports  his  diamonds  and  his  ducks, 
And  boasts  of  his  acquaintance  with  the  knucks ; 
While  fussy  Cl-rk,  in  thin  and  singing  strain, 
Pipes  out  a  bid,  as  if  he  were  in  pain. 
Here  timid  E-rle  sits  at  his  pensive  ease, 
Indulging  in  his  apples,  and  his  cheese  ; 
While  lusty  Allan,  an  example  lives, 
And  sundry  lessons  of  enjoyment  gives. 


THE   MONIAD.  47 

Among  the  many,  yellow,  fair  or  dark, 
Our  Powell  towers,  quite  a  patriarch. 

As  each  quotation  comes,  what  clamors  rise, 
The  hall  is  filled  with  roaring  melodies, 
While  erst  we  list  the  low  desponding  tale, 
With  which  the  "bears"  their  sorrows  all  bewail. 
Anon  the  crowd  to  Abel's  board  retreat, 
As  Specialty  sweeps  along  the  street ; 
While  Clarence  splutters,  and  McMichael  swells, 
My  Kelly  still  within  my  memory  dwells. 

The  Major  rises  from  his  easy  chair, 

And  grandly  fingers  at  his  glossy  hair  ; 

His  features  show  no  traces  of  a  frown, 

As  with  a  smile  he  brings  the  hammer  down. 

A  station  to  command  his  element, 

Where  friends  combine  to  make  him  President. 

The  Board  his  mild  injunction  soon  obey, 

The  roughest  yield  to  his  delicious  sway ; 

The  chorus  meekly  binks  to  low  refrain, 

Appeals  to  Webst-r  are  not  made  in  vain ; 

The  clatter  of  carousal  voices  loud, 

Shrinks  back  to  silence,  even  M-ss  is  cowed. 


48  THE    MONIAD. 

With  equal  zeal  he  rules  the  festive  board, 
When  fowls  are  voted  with  a  quick  accord. 
Good  cheer,  and  welcome,  in  his  features  shine, 
His  spirits  mingle  with  his  glowing  wine. 

A  spider  toy,  suspended  by  a  thread, 

Can  fill  the  tender  heart  with  silent  dread  ; 

The  story  of  some  suffering  infant  told, 

May  wring  the  soul  that's  proud  and  greatly  bold  ; 

The  ear  accustomed  to  the  bullet's  flight, 

Will  shrink  from  moanings  of  a  windy  night ; 

And  oft  the  eye,  which  dark  stern  vigils  keep, 

Will  sink  in  pity,  and  profoundly  weep. 

So  great  abilities  should  not  prevent, 

The  quiet  virtues  following  their  bent ; 

If,  for  a  soldier's  love,  a  maiden  sued, 

No  reason  'tis,  that  he  should  e'er  be  rude ; 

Who  so  is  great  is  the  more  truly  so, 

Who  kindly  sets  a  humble  heart  aglow. 

But  never  G-w  descended  from  his  stool, 

And  perched  on  high  ne'er  thought  himself  a  fool ; 

He  drains  the  draught  of  self  distilled  applause, 

And  fain  would  dominate  o'er  all  our  laws ; 

No  kindness  in  his  spirit's  ever  blent, 

To  charities  he  lends  at  ten  per  cent. 


THE   MONIAD.  49 

His  glittering  eye  in  children  terrors  raise  ; 

His  hair  enjoys  entanglements  best  praise  ; 

Woe  once  assailed  him  in  the  busy  mart, 

And  long  the  goddess  tried  to  find  his  heart, 

But  failing,  sadly  grasped  her  mourning  cup, 

Content  at  last  to  give  the  rascal  up. 

Sure  one  would  think,  who  all  his  tricks  have  heard, 

That  Walnut  street  well  nigh  outstrips  South  Third. 

Our  big  lunged  champion,  rises  in  his  might, 
Eager  to  join  the  legislative  fight ; 
And  though  the  crawler  spirts  his  venom  out, 
And  darts  his  little  glittering  eyes  about. 
Lifting  his  yellow  hand  to  cause  dismay, 
Our  Webster  still  preserves  his  happy  sway. 
The  opposition  send  him  many  a  frown, 

But  all  their  fury  cannot  keep  him  down. 

• 

See  Silvy  those  activities  reveal, 
Which  tend  directly  to  his  woe  or  weal ; 
Now  "bulls"  he  high,  now  "bears"  he  to  the  dust, 
A  friend  to  all,  yet  recreant  to  each  trust ; 
So  smart  and  furious  for  the  greedy  pelf, 
Not  strange,  he  often,  will  o'er  reach  himself; 
5 


50  THE   MONIAD. 

And  when  ho  thinks  to  grasp  the  golden  prize, 
He  fails,  and  shakes  his  head  and  rolls  his  eyes. 

Now  Philip's  tortured  with  the  weight  of  stocks, 
That  slumber  safely  in  his  iron  box  ; 
A  Banker's  daughter  certain  powers  gave, 
Which  make  him  eager  for  the  paying  shave. 
Smart,  shrewd,  and  active,  bold,  and  nothing  worse 
Than  anxious  for  the  contents  of  his  purse. 

Hear  wealthy  C-mblos  spit  his  vengeful  ire, 

On  younger  men  who  boast  ambition's  fire. 

Now  see  him  creep  with  stealthy  step  along, 

And  seek  to  meddle  in  the  busy  throng ; 

Tobacco  oozes  from  his  saffron  skin, 

The  juice  meanwhile  runs  down  his  dirty  chin ; 

Now  see  him  rise  with  green,  and  gleaming  eyes, 

To* say,  "those  sales  are  but  recorded  lies, 

Set  down  against  the  characters  of  those 

Who  brave  his  rage,  becoming  Heaven's  foes." 

Secure  himself,  he  fain  would  grind  to  dust, 

Those  nobler  hearts,  which  scorn  his  coward  thrust ; 

Because  forsooth  a  generous  deed  is  done, 

Or  greater  wit,  obscures  his  little  sun, 


THE   MONIAD.  51 

Slow  Charles  must  snail  like,  creep  upon  the  page, 
And  damp  the  beauties  of  the  growing  age  ; 
Still  "blot  the  records  of  the  mounting  heart, 
Leaving  his  slime,  upon  each  glowing  part. 

Why  sons  of  profit,  did  no  courage  rise, 

To  force  the  heathen  to  apologize ; 

Why  shrank  ye  back  when  aye  his  voice  he  raised, 

And  in  your  teeth  the  vile  insult  he  blazed  ; 

Too  long  ye  have  embraced  the  rusty  chains 

That  fetter  only  to  respect  great  gains. 

Too  long  ye  sit  and  bend  beneath  the  eyes, 

Of  those  who  linger  but  to  tyranize ; 

For  them  ye  rot,  for  them  ye  tamely  pray, 

While  trade  is  smothered,  genius  dies  away. 

Arise  bold  Adams,  cast  the  serpent  down, 

Lift  up  the  eagle  of  your  high  renown. 

Young  Fox  take  up  the  hatchet  of  the  true, 

And  strike  the  roots  of  fogyism  through ; 

And  Barker,  still,  uplift  your  lordly  tones, 

Shake  the  fierce  terrors,  from  the  old  dry  bones  ; 

While  all  the  sinews  of  the  rising  Board 

Will  join  you  with  a  powerful  accord ; 

With  you  for  leaders,  stocks  will  get  their  dues, 

While  Loyd  will  leap  and  joy  with  grateful  Hewes. 


52  THE   MONIAD. 

Unsound  the  law  which  bids  the  fossil  rule, 
The  growing  landscape,  or  the  rapid  tool ; 
Men  live  not  always,  neither  should  their  laws, 
Results  forever  vary  with  the  cause. 
Reason  is  still  the  safer  guide  to  all, 
While  retrospection  ripens  at  our  call. 
So  changing  times  require  changing  men, 
For  good,  or  ill,  to  use  the  righteous  pen. 

A  picture  of  Columbia's  monied  marts, 
Reveals  the  shame  of  all  the  gambler's  arts : 
Tricks  gushing  with  the  contumacious  lie, 
The  speculators  on  each  other  ply. 
Defaulting  tellers,  find  at  last  the  cell, 
"Where  vicious  cashiers,  inoffensive  dwell ; 
Grain  operations,  which  short  purses  drain, 
The  pillars  of  the  Christian  church  sustain  ; 
Each  Congressman's  a  money  genius  still, 
Who  saves  the  country  with  a  finance  bill ; 
Now  Stevens  hurls  a  fierce  and  dread  attack, 
Which  threats  commercial  interests  with  the  rack ; 
While  Kendall  drags  his  idiot  clause  along, 
Proclaiming  all  the  money  laws  are  wrong  ; 
Now  Tobin  bids  and  gathers  lesser  men, 
Where  Little's  mantle's  proudly  worn  again . 


THE    MONIAD.  53 

McCollough  hoards  a  dangerous  heap  of  gold, 
He  holds  the  trumps,  his  finance  play  is  bold, 
The  currency  he  now  contracts,  expands, 
As  suits  his  game,  or  policy  demands ; 
A  man  should  hug  the  principal  to  rest, 
Not  pay  the  debt  and  stop  the  interest ; 
By  this  strange  process,  so  the  Treasurer  says, 
One's  credit's  better,  though  one  never  pays. 
There  Dent  &  Co.  for  many  millions  down 
Offer  their  creditors  but  half  a  crown. 
And  Chapin  at  the  Derby  sweeps  the  stakes, 
And  near  a  million  honorably  makes. 

The  prize  in  "corners"  seldom  has  been  won, 
Leighton  goes  down  while  working  Cory  don. 
Ward  yields  to  copper,  Work  to  Hestonville, 
For  brief  timed  joys  they  get  a  world  of  ill ; 
In  place  of  nectar  gulp  a  bitter  pill. 

How  like  a  strumpet,  stripped  of  tinsel,  paint, 
And  all  those  gewgaws  that  bespeak  her  taint, 
Would  our  financial  men  and  world  appear, 
If  but  disrobed  of  all  their  vices  dear. 


54  THE   MONIAD. 

If  all  the  plans  of  profit,  tricks  to  win, 
Were  gathered  in  a  separate  world  of  sin. 
What  then  were  Daniel,  Tony,  Meyer,  Ben, 
Cornelius,  Childs,  but  mean  and  sorry  men. 

What  festive  joys  would  crown  their  revelry, 

As  skeletons  upon  a  phantom  sea, 

If  justice  gave  these  charlatans  their  due, 

And  forced  these  naked  truths  upon  their  view ; 

How  Pe-le  would  beg,  and  Warthm-n  sing  in  vain, 

For  the  one  privilege  to  be  poor  again. 

While  stingy  M-tchell  back  to  youth  would  bound, 

Or  pass  the  hat  benevolently  round. 


PAET  THIRD. 


War  and  peace — Secessia  beneath  a  canopy  of  chains — His 
palace  of  human  bones — Hate — Secessia's  commands  to 
Bloodshed,  Rapine  and  Devastation — The  bleeding  coun- 
try— The  starved  warriors — Feminine  malehood — Final 
exit — Inflation  and  its  results — Depression — Panic  and 
disaster  strike  a  triple  blow — Mammon's  distress — His 
mountain  home — Arrival  of  a  ruined  populace — The  varied 
features  of  the  crowd — Their  despair  and  conduct — The 
curse — Mammon's  promise — A  starveling  becomes  a  mon- 
grel man — Mammon's  disgust — The  appeal  of  the  D.  H. 
S. — The  triumph  of  professional  lifetakers,  i.  e.  insurance 
solicitors — The  anguish  of  the  quacks — The  slanderer  and 
his  fate — A  Masonic  delegation  and  their  generous  re- 
ception— The  future  of  the  Order — The  end  of  day — 
Mammon's  resolve — His  printing  presses  at  work — A 
thankless,  various,  radiant  crowd  disappears — Mammon 
alone  and  night  comes  upon  the  world. 

EBB  dread  calamity  became  the  star, 
The  ruling  God  of  nations,  and  of  war  ; 
Ere  the  fleet  steed  loud  snorting  to  the  wind, 
Plunged  on  the  foe,  and  never  looked  behind  ; 
Or  ere  with  pious  thrust,  a  reverend  sire, 
Proved  words  of  peace  consort  with  deeds  of  fire ; 


56  THE   MONIAD. 

Ere  heaving  tempests  lurked  in  caves  of  brass, 

Or  powder  plots  were  ranged  'neath  plains  of  grass ; 

Ere  armed  vessels  groaned  on  ocean's  breath, 

To  lightning  fort\the  thunder  tone  of  death  ; 

Ere  tumult  swung  aloft  its  banner  torn, 

And  shrieked,  and  swayed,  from  gloomy  morn  to  morn, 

The  world  with  tuneful  cadences  was  filled, 

In  songs  of  peace,  all  other  sounds  were  stilled. 

No  voice  of  rage,  in  discords  loud,  and  shrill, 
Piped  its  hot  breath,  to  breed  a  'world  of  ill ; 
No  tones  of  envy,  most  malicious  power, 
Scorched  the  fair  day,  or  gnawed  upon  the  hour ; 
No  fragile  form  fled  from  the  assassin's  knife, 
Or  begged  in  piteous  tones,  a  harmless  life ; 
No  giant  stride  of  hate,  no  shriek  of  fear, 
E'er  blanched  the  cheek,  or  palled  upon  the  ear ; 
No  robber  crept  beneath  the  robes  of  night, 
No  piles  of  treasure  ached  upon  his  sight ; 
Fell  rumor  ne'er  engrossed  the  gossip's  care, 
No  virtue  known,  because  no  vice  was  there ; 
The  placid  world  hailed  to  the  heavens  above, 
Which  smiled  responsive,  all  was  peace  and  love. 


THE   MONIAD.  57 

Behold  the  spot  where  grim  Secessia  reigns, 
On  throne  of  fire,  'neath  canopy  of  chains ; 
His  chieftans  ranged  about  him,  wait  his  nod, 
Eage,  pains,  tears,  rancor,  torture,  chilly  sod, 
Theft,  violation,  murder,  endless  harms, 
With  flaming  eyeballs  and  with  ready  arms. 
Around  him  rise  the  black,  uneven  walls, 
Decked  o'er  by  demon  skill,  that  sight  appals ; 
The  walls  themselves,  the  curious  figures  too, 
The  kingly  throne,  the  horns  the  demons  blew, 
The  numerous  rattling  canopies  of  state, 
The  chairs  on  which  the  grim  attendants  wait, 
The  urns  in  which  the  dread  recordings  lie, 
The  dome  all  tapestried,  the  carvings  nigh, 
The  furniture,  the  seeming  inlaid  stones, 
Were  but  a  mass  of  wrought  up  human  bones. 

From  each  dusk  corner,  see  a  giant  rise, 

With  bloody  hands  and  red  hot  flaming  eyes, 

Eager  to  seize  the  devastating  brand, 

And  hurl  destruction  o'er  a  peaceful  land ; 

Half  hid  in  chains,  grown  weak  from  mould  and  rust, 

And  hair  all  gray  with  dank  sepulchral  dust, 

As  though  just  from  a  century's  carouse, 

In  some  extended,  aged,  charnel-house. 


58  THE   MONIAD. 

First  came  dark  Hate,  with  nervous  darting  look, 
Which  the  soft  eye  of  love  could  never  brook ; 
Whose  deeds  are  first  on  chronicles  accurst, 
With  one  tremendous  wrench  his  chains  he  burst. 
His  ponderous  head,  herculean  form, 
Nor  fears  the  thunder,  and  defies  the  storm, 
His  voice  a  tempest,  and  each  movement  dedth, 
Scorpions  and  snakes  lie  bidden  in  his  breath. 
And  thus  he  stands,  a  bolt  of  smothered  harms, 
No  weapon  has  he  but  his  mighty  arms. 
Bends  he  full  low,  his  master  to  allure, 
That  he  a  bloodier  mission  may  secure. 
Anon  the  great  seceder  speaks  in  tones 
That  startle  with  affright  the  rattling  bones. 
"  Go  forth,  thou  minister  of  civil  broil, 
Range  o'er  the  realms  of  gold,  the  huts  of  toil, 
Attack  the  farmer  in  his  sunny  home, 
Assail  the  merchant  'neath  the  festive  dome ; 
By  hasty  act  and  venomed  word  of  mouth, 
Divide  the  North,  to  help  the  nobler  South ; 
Embitter  man  'gainst  man,  and  will  'gainst  will, 
And  soon  I'll  send  a  messenger  to  kill ; 
Avaunt  and  haste  thee," — straightway  giant  Hate 
Howled  an  adieu,  and  never  stopped  to  prate. 


THE    MONIAD.  59 

Next  Bloodshed  came,  all  singed  and  scarred  his  face, 
As  though  by  former  deeds  he  carved  his  place. 
Adown  his  arms  the  sword  stroke  furrows  ran, 
And  all  his  limbs  the  great  seams  deeply  span. 
His  eyebrows  wore  a  black  and  rugged  frown, 
And  from  his  mouth  the  blood  drops  trickled  down. 
Forth  from  his  bloodshot  eye  burst  balls  of  fire, 
That  told  of  hellish  deeds  of  vengeful  ire. 

No  sooner  had  he  shown  his  red  veined  face, 
Than  his  chains  fell,  blood  rusted  from  their  place ; 
He  stamped  and  shook  himself,  as  though  to  see 
If  all  his  functions  were  at  liberty  ; 
With  a  deep  breath  that  made  the  place  resound, 
He  fell  before  his  master  with  a  bound. 

"  Hail  sire !     Potential  God !"  he  said, 
"At  thy  command  I  hither  hasty  sped  ; 
Released  from  fettered  ease,  I  craving  ask 
That  very  soon  thoul't  speak  my  baneful  task." 

"  Give  me  thy  hand,  thou  minister  of  blood/' 
And  they  embraced  as  kindred  spirits  should. 
"  Thy  task  it  is,  the  mighty  sword  to  wield, 
And  scatter  carnage  on  the  battle  field  ; 


60  THE   MONIAD. 

To  fill  with  gaping  wounds  our  Northern  foes ; 
And  drown  the  national  in  domestic  woes ; 
Swing  thy  red  sword  until  the  vultures  croak, 
Lop  off  the  heads,  a  hundred  at  a  stroke ; 
Until  the  earth,  all  sated  with  the  gore, 
Rolls  it  away,  refusing  to  drink  more ; 
Then  hew  and  hack,  nor  stop  to  talk,  or  dream, 
Till'  'gins  to  swell  like  veins  each  running  stream  ; 
Nor  cease  thy  work  till  o'er  the  banks  they  flood, 
And  men,  and  land,  and  waters,  all  are  blood." 

Then  greedy  Eapine  stole  upon  the  scene, 
And  looked  around,  above  bones,  and  between  ; 
Dark  cunning  flashed  from  his  far  sunken  eye, 
Where  cruelty  in  dogged  fear  doth  lie. 
Long  arms  and  mighty  move  the  soul  to  fright, 
Like  the  grim  rocks  which  fret  the  sea  by  night. 

"  Thou  know'st  thy  mission,  double  limbed  knave ! 
Forth  to  thy  work,  nor  spare  the  church,  nor  grave ; 
Creep  with  thy  minions  to  the  city's  wealth, 
Possess  it,  or  by  knife,  or  fraud,  or  stealth ; 
Pause  at  the  rustic's  door,  for  alms  appeal, 
Watch  when  he  turns,  then  boldly  in  and  steal ; 
The  maiden,  standing  by  the  bowered  gate, 
Clutch  thou  away,  and  boldly  violate  ; 


THE    MONIAD.  61 

The  wife,  who  hides  her  husband's  little  hoard, 
Knock  on  the  head,  and  seize  on  all  that 's  stored  ; 
Trip  up  the  workmen  as  they  homeward  go, 
Filch  the  week's  wages,  war  costs  much  you  know. 
Throughout  the  North  each  town  or  growing  village 
Has  too  much  wealth,  will  lesser  grow  by  pillage. 
Go  forth !  and  spare,  nor  age,  nor  sex,  nor  kind, 
Something  from  all  to  bring  away  thou  'It  find ; 
The  merchant's  marble  palace,  yielding  farms, 
The  student's  chamber,  and  the  young  girl's  charms, 
The  beds  of  gold,  th&  red  and  glowing  wine, 
Bring  thou  them  here,  for  I  would  have  all  mine." 
Gathering  his  imps  that  soon  around  him  flew, 
Rapine  made  his  obeisance  and  withdrew. 

With  gaunt,  yet  fiery  aspect,  then  appeared 
Foul  Devastation,  guilt  and  blood  besmeared, 
Brimful  of  some  fell  purposed  horrid  woe, 
Death  was  his  look,  which  kills  without  a  blow. 
Huge  limbs,  in  some  saturnal  region  born, 
Held  up  a  frame  which  dooms  mankind  to  mourn ; 
Stiff  bristling  from  his  thick  uncovered  neck, 
Grew  hairy  swords,  that  drive  the  world  awreck; 


62  THE    MONIAD. 

Upon  his  head  the  myriad  tortures  grew, 

In  heaving  flames  now  burning  darkly  blue  ; 

Disaster  couched  in  his  eager  eyes, 

And  from  his  mouth  the  leaping  torments  rise ; 

A  clot  stained  sword  he  clutches  in  one  hand, 

The  other  swings  aloft  a  burning  brand ; 

Full  twenty  daggers  grace  his  body  belt, 

Whose  hackings  show  the  blows  he  must  have  dealt. 

Raging  he  bellows,  and  but  ill  at  ease, 

Before  his  chieftain,  drops  upon  his  knees. 

Secessia,  smiling,  into  greetings  broke, 
And  to  the  kneeling  slayer,  thus  he  spoke. 
"  Hail  chief  test  fiend !  all  things  above  below, 
The  fruits  of  the  good  working  plainly  show  ; 
Thou'rt  felt  in  dread  consumption's  ghostly  sway 
In  wrecks  on  seas,  in  mental  strength's  decay  ; 
In  the  proud  tree,  low  bending  to  the  blast, 
That  with  a  crash  falls  to  the  ground  at  last ; 
In  castles  which  the  feudal  flag  unfurled 
Now  ruined,  that  had  once  defied  the  world ; 
In  the  recoiling  stroke  of  lightning  flash, 
Which  over  mountains,  into  forests  crash ; 
In  storms  that  rend  the  quiet  cottage  hearth, 
Uproot  the  trees,  and  barren  make  the  earth. 


THE   MONIAD.  63 

In  flouting  Treason's  pale  ambiguous  eye, 

In  by  gone  glory,  and  in  Patriot  sigh ; 

Up  and  away,  my  constant  friend  and  true, 

Do  all  that  bloodshed,  hate  and  rapine,  fear  to  do." 

Secessia,  to  assist  his  friends  afar, 
Seized  a  huge  sword  and  bid  his  hosts  prepare, 
"  Charge  on  the  fiends  with  double  hellish  will, 
Drown  those  alive,  in  blood  from  those  ye  kill." 
He  said,  and  soon  in  battle  line  arrayed, 
He  bade  his  followers  kiss  his  battle  blade. 
Then  with  dread  myriad  howls  all  turned  to  go 
And  drench  the  North  with  one  terrific  blow. 

Four  years  of  anguish  passed  in  hot  disgrace, 
Time  blushed  meanwhile,  and  hid  his  weeping  face ; 
Starved  warriors  see  again,  their  blooming  homes, 
With  them  the  sickening  tale  of  horror  comes ; 
Of  Carolina's  dreadful  prison  deaths, 
Of  tortures  mingling  with  pestiferous  breaths, 
Of  dead  lines  passed,  of  quick  sent  bullet  holes, 
No  chaplain  gi'en,  to  bless  the  dying  souls. 

They  tell  the  story  of  the  glorious  dead, 
How  Indiana  craved,  Rhode  Island  bled  ; 


64  THE    MONIAD. 

The  blood  of  one  united  Maine  was  free, 

To  mingle  with  divided  Tennessee. 

Missouri  mourned  her  fratricial  band, 

The  Keystone  rolled  the  foul  hordes  from  her  land. 

As  pass  in  turn  the  various  scenes  of  war, 

The  limbless  pensioner,  the  horrid  scar, 

The  widow's  weeds,  the  orphan's  solemn  line, 

The  great  seceder  sudden  grows  feminine. 

He,  who  the  Southern  monarchy,  would  rule 
At  first  encountered  bitter  ridicule ; 
But  soon  Monroe  I  thy  walls  encompassed  him, 
His  locks  more  thin  and  gray,  his  eyes  more  dim. 
The  very  vultures  mingle  in  the  crowd, 
While  vengeance  o'er  his  prison  cried  aloud. 
But  ended  there,  our  imbecile  abhorence, 
He  takes  his  bed  and  crosses  the  St.  Lawrence. 
So  drooped  the  great  rebellion's  chieftest  head, 
Its  ministers  in  chains,  abroad,  or  dead. 
Pray  Heaven  we  shall  never  hear  in  song, 
That  Northern  mercy  was  Columbia's  wrong. 

Mammon  the  while  looked  on  with  many  a  frown, 
He  saw  the  eagle  structure  tumbling  down, 


THE    MONIAD.  65 

• 

Inflation  rule  each  seeming  busy  mart, 

Beheld  depression  ready  with  his  dart, 

Eager  to  strike  but  watchful  of  the  hour, 

When  all  should  yield  to  his  tremendous  power. 

He  saw  Assassinations  form  uncouth, 

Eternal  damn  the  foul  name  of  a  Booth ; 

Sorrow  sweeps  naked,  through  the  shud'ring  land, 

Pointing  at  Lincoln  with  a  palsied  hand  ; 

He  saw  succession  mount  the  patriot's  chair, 

And  all  our  liberties  entrampled  there  ; 

A  Congress  wrangling  in  and  out  of  sense  ; 

The  constant  fear  and  loss  of  confidence  ; 

The  Chase  coined  banks,  grow  rotten  to  the  core  ; 

And  current  funds,  more  wretched  than  before ; 
He  thought  them  all  by  politicians  made, 
To  breed  corruption  in  the  heart  of  trade ; 
He  saw  the  workshops  idle  one  by  one, 
Where  frauds  of  shoddy  were  covertly  done  ; 
The  business  of  the  country  dwindle  slow, 
Till  naught  but  speculation  lived,  to  show 
The  road  to  gain.    Strikes  flourish  east  and  west, 
Each  trader,  all  in  anguish  tear  his  breast. 
He  heard  an  empty  rumor  senselessly 
Vented  by  partisan  idiocy, 
6* 


66  THg   MONIAD. 

From  which  the  people  to  be  paupers  learn, 
And  speculators  into  beggars  turn. 
He  saw  the  saving  banks  soon  close  their  doors, 
The  needy  mass  that  out  of  Wall  St.  pours  ; 
Importers,  jobbers,  hardware  dealers,  all, 
Wrapt  in  one  ruin,  sick  and  crazy,  fall ; 
The  national  banks  which  never  specie  need, 
Fall  down  at  once  like  to  a  broken  reed ; 
He  saw  depression  with  a  rapture  glow, 
Saw  panic  and  disaster  creeping  slow, 
The  three  together  strike  a  triple  blow, 

The  world  its  periodic  illness  felt, 
In  every  land  the  money  trouble  dwelt. 
The  want  of  faith  o'er  every  barrier  rode, 
And  fortunes  vanished  by  the  quickest  mode. 

Mammon  alarmed,  to  see  the  ruin  made, 
The  sad  scenes  for  a  moment  now  surveyed, 
Turned  with  a  swimming  eye,  a  mien  of  gloom, 
And  sought  the  solace  of  his  mountain  home.; 
He  quickly  views  the  waste  of  barren  trees 
That  meets  his  gaze  when  but  the  court  he  sees, 
Reflects  that  Winter  with  his  freezing  mould 
Has  changed  the  flowers,  to  the  ices  cold. 


THE   MONIAD.  67 

Within,  a  festive  scene  now  meets  his  glance, 
He  pressed  by  many  leads  the  jovial  dance. 
Anon  a  servant  pale,  with  staring  eyes, 
Hushes  before  his  master,  whose  surprise, 
First  checks  his  utterance,  then  "  Varlet  speak, 
Why  on  our  pleasures,  do  you  sudden  break  ?" 

"  Oh  king  1  a  rabble  mass,"  the  dolt  replied, 

"  Are  clamoring  to  see  you.    Open  wide 

The  gates  did  stand,  and  in  a  mad  despair, 

They  entered."     "Enough !  some  my  throne  prepare 

The  richest  robe  upon  my  person  place, 

And  let  the  court  assemble  all  its  grace. 

We'll  hear  their  speech,  and  in  an  hour  expect, 

A  host,  some  soul,  and  some  but  body  wrecked." 

Now  Mammon  from  an  upper  station  sees, 
The  mass  approaching  through  the  leafless  trees. 
Sinners  and  saints,  are  linked  arm  in  arm, 
Made  loving  by  the  general  alarm ; 
Bankers  and  stevedores,  mingle  all  their  tears, 
Seek  from  each  other  solace  for  their  fears  ; 
Cashier  and  clerk  are  one  by  force  of  woe, 
And  hand  in  hand  bemoaningly  they  go ; 


68  THE   MONJAD. 

While  science,  art,  and  genius,  poet,  ass, 
With  brewers,  butchers,  beggars,  weeping  pass. 
Lords,  dukes,  and  kings,  attend  in  mournful  state, 
To  know  the  color  of  their  future  fate ; 
The  merchant  sobs  within  the  laborer's  arms, 
And  blurts  our  praises  of  his  lusty  charms ; 
Enough  he  sees,  he  hears  the  frantic  cries, 
And  hastes  to  meet  them  with  his  remedies. 
With  royal  step,  he  mounts  the  gorgeous  throne, 
Bearing  the  riches  of  full  half  a  zone. 

Now  fresh  despair  does  seem  the  crowd  to  heat, 

They  yell,  they  groan,  and  shriek,  and  stamp  their  feet. 

They  shake  aloft  certificates  of  shares, 

And  worthless  bonds,  prospectuses  and  snares ; 

One  hurls  a  mass  of  deeds  at  Mammon's  head, 

Which  separate,  and  all  around  are  spread ; 

Another  oily  evidence  proclaims, 

In  various  Co.'s  of  near  a  thousand  names  ; 

A  patentee,  despairing  of  his  bread, 

Breaks  the  nice  model  on  his  neighbor's  head ; 

And  each  insanely  with  a  heap  of  noise, 

The  last  sad  token  of  his  wealth  destroys ; 

While  empty  wallets,  some  turned  inside  out, 

Fly  through  the  air,  and  pile  the  throne  about. 


THE   MONIAD.  69 

Now  rose  a  voice,  "  Oh  never  be  ye  damned," 
In  thin  dry  tones  as  if  a  beggar  qualmed ; 
"Ne'er  be  ye  damned,"  the  interjection  dropped, 
Then  came  one  whose  head  was  closely  cropped ; 
Three  then  essayed  to  drop  the  useless  "  ne'er," 
And  "be  ye  damned,"  they  shrieked  upon  the  air; 
At  which  the  maddened,  indiscriminate  crowd, 
Caught  up  the  curse  and  thundered  it  aloud. 

Mammon  long  tried  the  tumult  to  subdue, 

Still  would  they  shriek,  and  bark,  and  roar,  and  me^ 

Until  his  promise  to  uphold  their  cause, 

Calmed  all  their  fears  and  raised  a  loud  applause. 

"  Speak  boldly  out,  not  like  a  timid  bird 

Whose  loss  is  greatest,  let  him  first  be  heard." 

See  yon  poor  starveling,  rushing  through  the  crowd, 
Who  gestures  wildly,  and  exclaims  aloud  ; 
A  momentary  pang  the  votaries  feel, 
They  fain  would  hear  his  violent  appeal ; 
They  look  a  moment,  then  disgusted  turn, 
And  recognize  him,  but,  to  hotly  spurn ; 
Then  scornfully  they  gaze,  and  raise  a  shout, 
Appeal  to  Mammon  straight  to  put  him  out ; 


70  THE   MONIAD. 

"  This  man  who  dares  to  seek  thy  glorious  face 
Is,  to  his  calling,  but  a  hot  disgrace." 

Mammon  replies, — "  I  own,  my  friends,  'tis  true 
This  man  unworthy  is  to  mate  with  you ; 
Yet,  you  have  hearts,  and  should  with  him  condole, 
Think  what  it  is  to  be  without  a  soul. 
Forget  your  wrath,  and  let  the  fellow  squirm, 
Take  pity  on  the  little  crawling  worm ; 
We'll  hear  his  prattle,  he  is  bound  to  speak, 
His  words  are  earnest,  but  his  voice  is  weak. 
But  yet,  I  cannot  speak  to  this  disguise, 
Pray  some  of  you,  and  lend  a  pair  of  eyes ; 
Then  shorter  ears,  too  good  for  him  I  ween, 
A  larger  nose  let  there  be  placed  between ; 
A  forehead  which  more  intellectual  seems, 
Perelli  with  your  music  drown  his  screams ; 
Thy  handkerchief,  Jerome,  lord  of  the  sports, 
May  silence  all  his  dreadful  nasal  snorts ; 
A  pair  of  stouter  legs  would  better  please, 
To  stop  that  horrid  twitching  of  his  knees ; 
Come  Agnew,  with  some  potent  drug  erase 
The  blotches  rich,  from  his  blood  browned  face. 
When  newly  made,  his  greasy  clothes  away, 
And  in  a  clean  shirt  soon  his  form  array ; 


THE   MONIAD.  71 

Rockhill !  thy  duty  'tis  to  o'er  him  scan, 
See  what  is  needed  more,  to  make  a  man. 

The  dressing  corps  advance,  and  lay  him  bare, 
He's  naked  as  when  first  he  blasted  air ; 
Fresh  odors  from  his  exposed  body  rise, 
The  stench  too  great  for  one  so  small  in  size ; 
They  dip  him  quickly  in  a  boiling  tub, 
And  let  him  soak,  before  they  dare  to  rub. 
By  help  of  soda,  towels,  brushes  vast, 
Their  labor's  ended,  he  is  clean  at  last ; 
Horace  a  moment,  lends  his  forehead  high, 
While  Israel  lends  his  nose  with  many  a  sigh ; 
Their  little  ears  the  many  would  display, 
All  that  commandment  hasten  to  obey  ; 
A  noted  dealer  in  unstamped  kegs, 
Provides  the  eyes,  while  Taylor  lends  him  legs ; 
And  after  he  is  dressed,  this  mongrel  man, 
Made  up  of  parts,  is  led  forth  to  the  van ; 
But  borrowed  grace,  God's  writ  it  in  his  phiz, 
Could  never  make  him  else  than  what  he  is. 

"Oh  King!"  he  cried.    "Oh,  I  was  robbed  by  stealth, 
Oh,  pray  restore  my  honest,  hard  earned  wealth ; 


72  THE   MONIAD. 

In  thy  good  service,  gray  these  hairs  have  turned, 

For  thee  with  shame  these  cheeks  have  often  burned. 

I  own  that  I've  been  prominently  mean, 

But  then  imposters  fain  would  take  me  in ; 

The  tyrant  o'er  my  money  haunts  I  played, 

But  all  my  clerks  were  cheats  and  poorly  paid ; 

To  churches  I  would  willingly  give  much, 

But  that  I  fear  the  clergy's  grasping  clutch ; 

I  grateful  was  for  all  the  favors  done, 

If  but  a  larger  favor  could  be  won ; 

Per  cent.  I  name  not,  'tis  our  calling's  due, 

For  that  no  harm  can  I  expect  from  you. 

Great  Mammon,  hear  me,"  but  his  forehead  fell, 

The  blotches  budded,  and  his  ears  did  swell, 

His  eyes  assumed  their  former  cat-like  look, 

He  snorted,  spat,  and  in  his  knees  he  shook, 

And  exhalations  from  his  body  rose, 

He  damaged  that  he  might  but  keep  the  clothes. 

Now  from  the  scene  did  Mammon  turn  aside, 
And  to  the  trembling  aspirant  thus  replied : 
"Oh,  thing!  oh!  what  thou  wilt:  no  longer  taint 
My  court  with  thy  foul  presence,  or  I  faint, 
This  bag !  quick  take  it !     Yonder  is  the  door, 
Begone,  and  let  me  see  thy  face  no  more." 


THE   MONIAD.  73 

Thus  warned,  he  clutched  the  coin,  as  threats  were  rife, 
Glad  that  he  saved  his  miserable  life ; 
Away  he  sped,  nor  Mammon  thanked,  for  he 
Was  since  his  birth  top  mean  for  courtesy. 
He  left  a  flavor  of  old  clothes  and  rank, 
Which  all  agreed  could  only  come  from  Frank. 

Behold  that  needful  crew  in  seedy  coats, 
Buttoned  well  up  against  their  clam'rous  throats ; 
Loudly  some  grievance  urging  they  bemoan, 
Tears  in  their  eyes,  and  anguish  in  their  tone ; 
One  spectacled,  and  ponderous  with  fat, 
Blubbers  and  splutters  like  a  boiling  vat; 
One,  gaunt  and  tall,  and  hollow-eyed  and  black, 
Pipes  a  sharp  note  as  though  upon  the  rack ; 
While  others  to  the  medium  sized  belong, 
Their  mouths  and  ears  as  various  as  their  song ; 

Now  forth  steps  one  with  red  and  swollen  face, 
And  thus  he  speaks :  "  Your  holiness  or  grace 
We  are  unfortunate.    No  more  the  plays 
Excite  our  ire,  or  command  our  praise ; 
No  more  the  festive  suppers  bless  our  frames, 
No  more  the  picnics,  or  the  base  ball  games ; 
7 


74  THE    MONIAD. 

No  more  we  seek  the  gushing  watering  place, 

Where  we  can  run  our  high  and  potent  face ; 

No  more  the  railroads  list  our  plaintive  cry, 

Unless  you  help  us,  we  must  quickly  die ; 

Great  Mammon !  to  thy  power  we  appeal, 

To  dry  our  tears  and  all  our  sorrows  heal, 

For  all  the  institutions  named  above, 

Have  closed,  or  shut  down  on  our  mighty  love  ; 

We  languish  for  the  passes  once  again, 

Oh  haste !  good  Mammon,  and  the  work  begin." 

"Oh,  ay!"  said  Mammon,  "you  are  some  of  those 

Who  into  every  pleasure  thrust  their  nose ; 

Who  bask  in  kindness'  most  indulgent  ray, 

While  nobler  patrons  the  expenses  pay ; 

Known  to  the  world,  where  e'er  your  freedom  spreads 

As  ever  present,  pious,  *  defunct  heads/ 

You  may  be  useful  to  me  one  day  hence, 

So  I'll  relieve  your  present  abstinence. 

Go!    Get  you  in!  and  on  my  larder  feed, 

Drink  to  your  fill,  and  take  whatever  you  need." 

First  with  a  shuffle,  then  a  lofty  bound, 

The  festive  board  they  soon  are  spread  around. 

Lo !  who  are  those  assailing  Mammon's  ears, 
With  hands  on  hearts,  whose  eyes  are  oozing  tears, 


THE   MONIAD.  75 

Who  loudly  for  the  different  systems  speak, 
And  swear  his  welfare  they  but  kindly  seek  ? 
The  words  "endowment,"  "dividends,"  are  blent, 
With  "policy,"  "half  note,"  and  "big  per  cent." 
They  toil,  and  scramble — he  their  talk  endured 
Till  fifty  Companies  have  his  life  insured. 
At  last  they  leave  him  half  deprived  of  wit 
Each  flourishing  an  application  writ ; 
He  turns  relieved,  the  act  his  sense  restores, 
He  damns  them  for  insufferable  bores. 
Why  will  no  Kirkbride  from  his  cells  arise 
To  prison  those  who  cramp  our  liberties  ? 
Oh  Heaven!  free  our  weary  trusting  souls, 
From  such  affection  for  our  buttonholes. 

See  what  a  crowd  the  throne  has  now  beset, 

A  hungry  mob  who  shriek  a  wild  regret ; 

Some,  empty  bottles  flourish  in  the  air ; 

Some,  into  pill-less  boxes  sadly  stare ; 

Some  tear  the  portrait  from  the  labels  new, 

While  others  filch  the  stamp  of  revenue  ; 

"  Speak  out,  what  ails  you  ?"  Mammon  curtly  cries, 

And  thus  the  bearded  leader  soon  replies. 

"Oh,  king,  we're  helpless,  gone  is  all  our  wealth, 

The  people  suddenly  are  struck  with  health ; 


76  THE   MONIAD. 

No  more  the  patients  clamor  for  our  pills, 
The  universal  offset  to  their  ills ; 
No  more  the  lame,  the  palsied,  and  the  blind, 
The  virtues  of  our  Pine  Tree  Cordial  find ; 
Expectorants  do  still  remain  in  store, 
And  only  used  by  the  dramatic  corp ; 
The  chills  and  fever  now  despise  the  earth ; 
Of  lung  disorders  there  is  complete  dearth ; 
The  livers  will  in  spite  of  all  our  care, 
Perform  their  functions  with  a  conscience  rare, 
White  swellings  no  more  satisfy  our  gaze ; 
No  corns  or  dropsies  will  our  fortunes  raise ; 
That  devil,  Reason,  in  the  world  doth  lurk, 
Teaching  the  value  of  a  little  work ; 
That  air  and  exercise  are  better  far, 
Than  potions  of  wild  cherry  bark,  or  tar ; 
That  cleanliness  or  friction  strength  imparts, 
To  those  who  wish  long  life  and  healthy  hearts. 
So  thou  all  potent  majesty  renew 
Our  lease  upon  the  Christian,  Turk  and  Jew ; 
Again  our  coffers  reap  the  golden  crops, 
Provide  us  patients,  we  will  find  the  *  drops/ 
Then  will  we  bless  thee,  and  in  token  take 
A  box  of  ointment  and  a  magic  cake." 


THE   MONIAD.  77 

Mammon  replies.     "Thanks  many  for  your  stuff, 
But  truth  to  say,  Tve  had  and  heard  enough  ; 
Begone,  nor  longer  fill  the  world  with  trash, 
To  rob  my  subjects  of  their  hard  earned  cash ; 
Scorpions  and  fires  blaze  your  path  along, 
Drink  your  own  drugs  and  do  each  other  wrong ; 
Remorseless  quacks!  hence  to  your  filthy  den 
And  leave  the  world  to  honest,  abler  men. 
To  Smith's,  to  Agnew's,  Still's  modest  gains, 
Whose  genius  palliates  a  thousand  pains." 

They  crept  away  with  sullen  abject  pace, 
While  Mammon  hurls  the  ointment  in  their  face. 

But  he,  exemplar  of  a  deadly  crime, 
That  breathes  the  poison  of  domestic  slime, 
Stands  forth  exulting  in  his  wretched  game, 
And  slanders  still  regardless  of  his  shame ; 
Who  casts  dishonor  on  a  friendly  head, 
By  creeping  from  his  table  to  his  bed ; 
Who  still  writes  on,  commanding  our  surprise, 
And  from  his  soul  mechanically  lies ; 
On  sepulchres  where  sleep  the  helpless  dead, 
Is  felt  his  soft  and  pliant  cat-like  tread ; 
7* 


78  THE    MONIAD. 

No  sanctity  in  him  can  Death  inspire, 
For  on  a  headstone  he  will  spit  his  ire. 
Loth  to  renounce  his  customary  groans 
When  men  are  dead,  he  slanders  still  their  bones ; 
Be  then  his  path  to  fame  through  alleys  dark, 
Through  stenchful  lanes  where  filthy  curs  do  bark, 
Through  courts,  where  vap'ry  poisons  darkly  seethe, 
Where  none  but  reptiles  burrowing  dare  breathe, 
There  let  shrunk  Hemlock  his  foul  head  enwreath. 

Mammon  beholds  the  mean  abortion  stand, 

And  to  an  officer  he  waves  his  hand. 

"  Convey  his  person  to  the  narrow  cell ; 

To  buried  living,  add  the  pangs  of  hell. 

The  torture  of  his  hundred  victims  turn 

Into  his  veins,  and  all  his  senses  burn ; 

Around  his  naked  frame  companions  be, 

The  crawling  lizards  for  eternity. 

No  monument,  no  weeping  verses  make, 

But  coil  upon  his  grave  a  rattlesnake ; 

That  men  may  see  how  Francis  lives  in  death, 

To  quake  the  gravestones  with  his  serpent  breath/7 

But  who  are  those  so  quiet  in  their  mien, 
Who  calmly  view  the  uncongenial  scene ; 


THE    MONIAD.  79 

In  solemn  black  each  form  is  well  arrayed ; 
Each  hand  is  gloved,  each  vest  a  badge  displayed. 
A  snowy  sash  across  each  valiant  breast 
Proclaims  an  order  now  supremely  blest, 
While  implements  are  pendant  glowingly, 
Of  goodly  work,  the  emblem  and  the  key. 
When  Mammon  saw  their  jewels  blazing  bright, 
His  eye  enkindled  at  the  well  known  sight, 
Saluting  with  a  graceful  wave  of  hand, 
He  begs  to  listen  to  their  high  command. 

"  Most  potent  sovereign.    Grand  Commander  hail ! 

We  come  not  mere  misfortunes  to  bewail, 

Nor  of  ourselves  to  speak  do  we  intend, 

Nor  ask  that  private  fortunes  you  shall jmend. 

But  truth  it  is,  our  funds  are  very  low, 

And  suffering  brothers  from  our  portals  go 

Unhelped  and  hungry.    We  have  given  all, 

All,  save  our  jewels  and  our  needful  Hall. 

Fell  Poverty  hath  so  curtailed  our  dues, 

That  starving  widows  we  must  e'en  refuse  ; 

Oh !  let  our  charities  forever  live, 

We  only  ask  that  we  may  freely  give. 

The  times  such  havoc  in  our  ranks  hath  made, 

Of  final  failure  we  are  sore  afraid  ; 


80  THE   MONIAD. 

The  Ancient  Arch  seems  falling  to  decay, 
Renew  the  Keystone  ere  it  drops  away." 
Now  tears  suffuse  great  Mammon's  yearning  eyes, 
And  with  a  choking  utterance  he  replies. 
"  Brothers  illustrious !     This  is  sad,  indeed ; 
My  private  vaults  shall  furnish  all  you  need ; 
Our  order  framed  by  Solomon's  command, 
Must  like  a  lighthouse  to  the  erring  stand ; 
Still  Faith  and  Hope  and  Charity  combined, 
Must  guide  the  senses  and  instruct  the  mind ; 
Corn,  wine  and  oil,  the  feverish  pang  assuage, 
Relieve  the  hungry  and  give  strength  to  age. 
The  working  tools  must  never  rust  nor  tire, 
Alike  respected  by  the  youth  and  sire. 
The  ark  and  anchor  with  the  All-seeing  eye, 
Our  hopes  restore,  and  all  our  virtues  try. 
Henceforth  our  landmarks  must  control  the  age, 
And  every  nation  in  our  cause  engage ; 
Our  principles  like  stars  forever  bright, 
Shall  re-illume  the  world's  remotest  night, 
Till  every  people  living  we  shall  see 
In  one  great  brotherhood  of  Masonry. 
For  this  my  coffers  ever  open  stand, 
And  subject  to  your  absolute  command. 


THE   MONIAD.  81 

Have  what  you  will,  my  Treasurers  attend, 

And  all  your  wishes  in  obeyance  end." 

"With  joyful  hearts  they  bowed  a  kind  adieu, 

And  signalling  their  thanks  they  straight  withdrew. 

The  expansive  bosom  of  a  golden  "West 
Received  the  am'rous  sun  with  kindling  zest. 
Mammon  now  rises  and  attention  seeks, 
And  earnestly,  yet  calmly,  thus  he  speaks. 
"Friends,  votaries,  and  subjects,  we  are  met 
To  counsel  on  the  ills  which  now  beset ; 
Shall  we  give  up  and  yield  like  senseless  clay, 
Or  strike  again  for  power?    Now  the  day 
Is  fast  declining,  ere  the  moon  doth  rise,     . 
We  must  decide  our  future  destinies/' 

A  host  of  speakers  here  advice  essayed, 
Who  but  the  final  action  still  delayed ; 
Some  clamored  loudly  for  a  heap  of  gold, 
Some  counselled  prudence,  some  despair  made  cold ; 
Till  Mammon  saw  a  "Trotter"  rear  his  head, 
To  breed  confusion,  so  he  rose  and  said : 
"Brothers  and  friends!  Contention  will  unedge 
Our  chiefest  aim.    To  you  my  word  I  pledge 


82  THE    MONIAD. 

That  all  the  means  are  yours  which  I  possess, 
Say  shall  it  be?"     A  million  shouted — Yes ! 
Forthwith  his  presses  furnished  speedily 
The  promises  to  pay.    In  frantic  glee 
Some  clutched  the  papers  and  a  due  bill  gave, 
Seized  on  their  hats,  and  left  the  courtly  pave. 
Others  more  decent,  both  in  word  and  deed, 
Expecting  some  collateral  to  need, 
On  Mammon  urged  in  sentence  neat  and  trim, 
Conveyance  of  their  property  to  him. 
Rising,  he  said,  as  he  their  hands  did  shake, 
"Nothing  from  you  but  honest  words  I'll  take." 

Now  one  by  one  they  take  their  gracious  leaves, 
"While  Mammon  kindly  benediction  weaves 
For  those  who  claim  his  most  deserving  smile, 
With  hearts  of  virtue,  ignorant  of  guile. 

Now  night  creeps  on,  and  Mammon  is  alone, 
He  views  the  stars  set  in  each  brilliant  zone ; 
He  sees  his  banner  to  the  Heavens  unfurled, 
And  knows  his  promises  rejuvenate  the  World. 


PART  FOURTH. 


A  decade  passed  in  prosperity — Promises  due — The  rush  to 
Mammon's  court — The  various  themes  discussed — Finan- 
cial theorist — Day-dreaming  youths — Anaconda  mortals 
— A  great  impostor  exposed — The  doings  of  the  crowd — 
Express  differences — The  fate  of  the  murderer — Gray 
hairs  and  unpleasant  memories — A  complaint — Dull 
payments  and  sharp  practice — The  demand  of  luxury — 
Mammon's  reproach — The  invitation — The  feast — The 
dining  hall — Exhiliration  of  Mammon's  votaries — Gor- 
mandizers and  maudlin  sentiments — Drunk — An  oracle 
— Solitary  wine — A  disturbance — A  roar — What  is't  ? — 
Home  sickness  of  the  votaries — The  fastened  doors — A 
swarming  world  appears — Citizens  must  be  soldiers — 
Mammon's  demand  of  the  crowd  outside — The  response 
— The  poor  of  the  world — Mammon's  reasons — They  in- 
sinuate— His  challenge — Their  indifference — Mammon's 
defiance — The  swung  hammer  and  Mammon's  fall — The 
palace  assailed  and  its  thousand  doors  burst  open — The 
cowardice  of  Mammon's  host  who  are  soon  mastered— 
The  surprise  and  curiosity  of  the  workmen — Their  mad 
desires — Rich  for  once — They  attack  the  plenteously  pro- 
vided tables — Carousal  feats  and  muddled  brains — Mam- 
mon only  stunned — His  vigilance — Releases  himself  and 
his  votaries — The  drunken  multitude  overcome — Mam- 
mon's victory — Why  he  still  rules — America — Our  eaglo 
— Our  great  names — Money  not  the  raa.in  object — Genius 
in  obscurity — Incipient  heroes  —  High  resolves — Con- 
clusion. 


84  THE   MONIAD. 

FIVE  summers  now  had  yielded  golden  fruits 

When  through  the  sky  a  flaming  notice  shoots, 

Propelled  by  lightning  from  a  gem  clad  hand 

Which  rules  in  splendor  all  the  prosperous  land. 

Men  kindle  at  the  long  expected  sight ; 

Few  glow  with  rapture,  many  pale  with  fright. 

The  righteous  use,  the  charitable  end, 

Too  many  shunned,  too  few  the  claim  pretend ; 

With  shame  or  pride  all  seek  the  famed  resort, 

To  hear  their  sentence  spoke  from  Mammon's  court. 

Mammon  beheld  the  strange  unsettled  crowd, 
The  stifly  purse  long,  and  the  bankrupt,  bowed ; 
His  word  has  passed,  and  all  the  surging  crew, 
Must  payment  make,  for  all  their  notes  are  due. 
The  passions,  in  a  hundred  forms  arrayed, 
The  various  natures  of  the  mass  displayed. 
In  spite  of  majesty's  most  brilliant  ray, 
Not  few  a  sad  desire  for  trade  betray, 
Ungrateful  grow,  and  careless  shout,  and  sing, 
Ignore  their  friend,  their  creditor,  and  king. 

Behold  the  various  themes.     There  enterprise 
With  cooling  draughts  the  heated  crowd  supplies. 


THE   MONIAD.  85 

Cold  avarice  bears  the  deep  indented  frown, 

And  skill  appears  overridden  by  a  clown. 

Poor  justice  pales  to  see  the  mean  disgrace, 

A  ruffian  mounted  in  her  favorite  place ; 

Credulity  is  taken  by  surprise, 

And  verdant  wonder  luminates  his  eyes. 

The  sinecure  who  feeds  at  public  troughs 

At  diligence  and  energy  still  scoffs ; 

Invention  cowers  near  a  bullirag, 

Whose  pugilism  never  seems  to  flag ; 

Carnality  all  cancerous  and  bold 

Still  arrogant  corrodes  the  heart  for  gold ; 

Ambition  courses  madly  after  those, 

Who  fain  would  step  into  Kothschildian  hose ; 

Benevolence  a  slender  choir  drew, 

And  shrinks  untainted  modestly  from  view ; 

Chicanery  rears  high  its  brazen  front, 

With  impudence,  and  lies,  writ  full  upon't ; 

The  case  worm,  Vice,  o'erlarded  with  the  spoils 

Of  Virtue's  fame,  now  boasts  of  all  its  toils ; 

Cajolery,  embracing  caitiff  lust, 

Now  leaps  on  high,  now  grovels  in  the  dust ; 

The  sophist's  jabber  and  the  juror's  brag, 

Still  stuffs  the  throat  of  Reason  with  a  rag ; 


86  THE   MONIAD. 

Black  artifice  to  many  dodges  driven, 

Holds  as  a  right  a  privilege  given ; 

While  idleness  ignores  the  growth  of  Time, 

And  without  wincing  keeps  a  borrowed  dime, 

Conceit  luxuriant  in  a  prosperous  gait, 

Struts  its  full  heighth,  while  learning,  genius  wait ; 

Here  politicians  disappointment  show, 

And  make  their  private  griefs  the  nation's  woe ; 

The  beggar  sees  an  empty  purse  and  knows 

A  full  one's  slumbering  in  the  dirty  hose ; 

There  corporations  dance,  and  drink,  and  shout, 

Corruption  eats  their  living  entrails  out ; 

While  guilt  unmasks,  and  crime  uprears  its  head, 

And  kills  with  malice  or  appals  with  dread ; 

And  still  the  stately  atheistic  hells 

Lift  their  great  roofs,  uproarious  with  the  yells 

Of  gasping  bigots,  dying  infidels. 

Financial  theorists,  who  spread  to  sight, 
Their  sparrow  wings  to  ape  the  eagle's  flight, 
Soon  flutter  down  to  some  great  feast  of  cheer, 
And  speak  in  ecstacies  of  all  they  hear ; 
Applaud  the  shares  that  generous  dollars  fling, 
And  write  responsive  to  a  certain  ring. 


THE   MONIAD.  87 

Day  dreaming  youths  who  by  a  tape  are  led, 

Whose  genius  lives  but  in  a  gingerbread, 

Who  toy  with  bracelets,  as  a  Dutchman  beer, 

And  wear  a  scent  box  for  some  fainting  dear  ; 

Now  amble  sweetly  after  girlish  joys — 

Did  Nature  fail  when  she  designed  them  boys  ? 

Genius  is  privileged  to  play  the  fool 

Where  none  but  dunces  teach  the  rising  school. 

Hail !  scion  of  the  imps,  by  idiots  nursed, 

For  Folly  now  is  cursed  by  what  it  cursed. 

Relentless  mortals  still  their  trade  pursue, 
They  get  their  own,  though  others  nothing  do ; 
And  like  a  leech  encancered  all  about 
Which  poisons  all  the  blood  it  sucks  not  out ; 
They  grab  the  vitals  of  an  honest  trade, 
And  all  the  limbs  make  paralyzed  or  dead. 
These  thirsty  traitors  poison  every  one, 
No  promise  quenches  their  destructive  tone ; 
They  hew  and  maim  with  all  a  warrior's  skill, 
As  if  the  times  had  made  it  fashionable ; 
Beware  their  threat  that's  uttered  with  a  smile, 
'Twill  take  your  heart  out  in  the  latest  style  ; 
Yon  wheedling  curs,  the  honeyed  murders  pour 
And  still  their  odor  clings  to  Thirty-four. 


88  THE   MONIAD. 

Mammon  beheld  wfth  chilling  eye  of  scorn, 

A  shivering  creature  beggarly  forlorn, 

Who  rolls  his  timid  ever  moistening  eyes, 

From  Heaven  to  Earth,  from  Earth  up  to  the  skies. 

Attenuation  sits  upon  his  bones 

Like  scarecrow  robes  upon  the  broomstick  thrones. 

Thus  Mammon  said,  "By  all  that's  good  and  just, 

Come  good  Sir  Morton  tell  us  of  your  trust." 

Poor  Peto  trembled,  pulled  a  pass-book  out, 
A  mass  of  figures  ranged  his  eye  about, 
He  fumbled,  gazed,  yet  no  conclusion  drew, 
No  satisfaction  broke  upon  his  view ; 
Heaving  a  sigh  from  memories  accurst, 
He  stammered,  tottered,  into  tears  he  burst. 

"Is  this,"  cried  Mammon,  "-but  the  meagre  end 
Of  all  those  millions  I  vouchsafed  to  lend ; 
No  good  accomplished,  or  no  fund  retained, 
Each  work  condemned,  and  every  record  stained. 
The  imbecility  I  might  applaud, 
But  to  the  weakness  you  have  added  fraud. 
'Tis  well,  indeed,  that  justice  now  defends 
The  great  defaulter,  while  it  meanly  sends 


THE   MONIAD.  89 

The  starving  workman  to  the  prison  cell, 
Who  steals  a  loaf,  to  ease  the  pangs  of  hell. 
Go ;  get  you  gone ;  and  ever  poor  remain, 
Not  fit  for  riches,  he  who  gets  by  stain." 

Meanwhile  a  scene  of  various  hues  imparts, 
A  curious  feeling  to  inquiring  hearts ; 
One  buys  his  neighbor's  paper  at  a  shave, 
One  a  bad  jack-knife  for  a  good  one  gave  ; 
While  country  dealers  feeling  smart  and  big, 
Indulging  in  a  little  thimblerig, 
Rise  from  the  table  with  a  muttered  curse, 
A  lengthened  visage,  and  shortened  purse. 
Our  Hugh  McC — ,  God  bless  his  precious  bones ! 
Still  "specie  payments"  ever  dismal  moans. 
From  poverty  a  brave  soul  mounts  the  skies, 
Contemned  by  those  who  love  his  melodies ; 
Shorn  planters  curse  and  frame  the  hidden  still, 
Or  reft  of  bondaged  wealth,  now  run  a  mill. 
The  heroes  of  the  bawd  successful  run, 
Still  pimp  for  lucre,  and  still  love  for  fun. 
With  tact  and  prudence  Dickens  piles  his  wealth, 
While  nimble  fingers  lift  a  purse  by  stealth. 

8* 


90  THE   MONIAD. 

One  steals  the  garments  of  a  loyal  priest, 

And  swears  he  lives  beneath  a  patriot  vest. 

An  alderman,  as  impotent  as  mean, 

Flings  his  dog  eyes  upon  some  sickly  scene, 

He  bottles  up  his  rage,  as  bottler's  beer, 

To  burst  with  vigor  when  the  vent  is  clear, 

And  like  a  toothless  cur,  who  aims  to  fright, 

He  can  but  bark  because  he  cannot  bite. 

Some  trembling  lamb  whose  frightened  speech  does  fail 

He  howls  is  "guilty,"  and  he  sends  to  jail. 

So  demagogues  and  empirics  now  rule, 

While  many  listen  to  a  spouting  fool. 

Near  to  the  star  political  we  see, 

The  red-nosed  lacquey  with  the  oily  knee, 

Who  curries  for  the  spoils  of  little  jobs, 

And  with  insulting  hand  relentless  robs. 

These  pettifogging  worms  are  viler  far 

Than  the  worst  knave  confined  by  prison  bar. 

Such  things  as  these  do  strengthen  monarchy, 

For  subjects  rather  have  a  king  than  they. 

Those  same  star  justices  must  meet  no  slight 

Who  say,  "if  right  pays  best,  we're  all  for  right, 

But  if  the  extra  dollars  come  along, 

We  are  ourselves,  and  pander  to  the  wrong." 


THE   MONIAD.  91 

What  pity  'tis  that  justice  is  made  blind, 
For  prisoners,  plaintiffs,  judges,  are  a  kind. 

Let  not  self  christened  and  green  poets  'scape, 
The  kindness  which  we  feel  their  verse  to  drape, 
In  sixteen  thousand  stanza  they  exhaust, 
A  single  thought — we  know  it  to  our  cost. 
Five  hundred  cantos  to  describe  a  moon, 
As  many  more  to  show  a  love  sick  loon. 
Abject  and  empty,  they  implore,  complain, 
And  mount  the  higher  in  more  wretched  strain. 
With  dogged  aim,  true  passion  they  destroy ; 
Blind  to  the  regal  gem  they  clutch  the  toy. 
Plagues,  glare,  false  pathos,  love  in  worn  out  stages, 
Ghost,  bluelight,  and  bad  rhyme,  make  up  their  pages. 
This  mass  of  stuff  their  boasts  poor  recompense, 
Is  thrust  upon  us  at  their  own  expense — 
For  heaven  knows  a  publisher's  true  taste, 
Would  save  the  scandal  and  the  paper's  waste. 
Oh,  that  another  Burns  to  us  were  given, 
Who  by  a  touch  unearths  and  lifts  to  Heaven. 
But  how  far  better  are  these  shallow  lights, 
Than  he  who  deeply  steeped  in  venom  writes ; 
Who  on  a  blister  Cayenne  would  apply, 
Draw  what  but  now  was  pain,  to  agony ; 


92  THE   MONIAD. 

Before  whose  pen  stroke  stab,  fine  sense  retreats, 
Such  blighted  Con  way  killed  a  noble  Keats. 

Who  knows  if  yonder  upper  circle's  blest, 

In  having  swells  who  boast  they  are  well  dressed ; 

We  scarce  can  say  were  we  to  take  the  pains, 

Which  were  the  worst  to  lack  fine  clothes  or  brains ; 

He  sees  the  belle  on  the  lookout  for  chances, 

Who  sings,  plays,  smiles,  and  fishes  while  she  dances ; 

Who  somehow  makes  a  lover  think  she's  sweet, 

Until  he  feels  the  hook,  nor  tastes  the  meat. 

'Tis  then  they  own  their  folly, — both  are  sold, 

For  he  is  silly,  she  is  poor  and  old. 

Above  the  souls  of  cormorants  who  rule, 
In  corporations  of  the  Adams  school ; 
Where  employees  are  rudely  thrust  aside, 
No  right  regarded,  or  no  want  supplied, 
If  sick  or  torn  by  the  destructive  freight 
A  quick  discharge  is  their  unlucky  fate — 
See  rise  those  men  the  honored  sons  of  toil, 
Whom  present  plenty  cannot  taint  nor  spoil, 
Who  see  in  labor  manhood's  chief  delight, 
Reward  their  servants  on  the  score  of  right ; 


THE   MONIAD.  93 

Retaining  still  their  manliness  and  pride, 
Though  tempted  by  example's  strenuous  tide ; 
Thus  Oakman  lives,  loved,  honored,  still  the  same, 
So  Vollum  rides  triumphantly  to  fame. 

Lo !  the  foul  butcher  with  a  bloodshot  eye, 
Shuffles  along,  nor  heeds  the  angry  cry 
Which  follows  as  his  miserable  face 
Is  seen  among  the  doomed  ones  of  the  place. 
Mammon  indignant  did  his  lightnings  shoot 
And  thus  addressed  the  ague  stricken  brute. 
"For  what  damned  uses  were  your  senses  given, 
Which,  for  a  pittance  were  to  murder  driven. 
What  dread  enjoyment  flashed  from  out  your  eyes, 
Who  on  the  nature  of  a  wolf  relies  ? 
What  blood  Winnemore  did  your  heart  enbloat, 
While  bending  o'er  poor  old  Magilton's  throat  ? 
Did  not  your  muscles  quivering  decide 
Her  age  should  turn  the  brutal  knife  aside  ? 
The  axe  you  raised,  red  horror  even  dims, 
Your  demon  heart  was  stronger  than  your  limbs. 
.  Could  not  your  malehood  those  desires  perplex, 
That  for  two  dollars  did  outrage  a  sex ; 
Your  plea  in  court  was  fickle,  base,  untrue, 
The  crazed  might  use  one  weapon,  never  two ; 


94  THE   MONIAD. 

Henceforth  let  murderers  consider  well, 
If  their  defence  in  reason's  tenable ; 
Nor  ask  the  judge  to  honor  a  request, 
That  vomits  death  into  a  household  blest. 

"Take  hence  the  scorpion  to  the  room  of  death, 
Make  hissing  serpents  dally  with  his  breath, 
For  seven  days  let  him  ne'er  taste  of  food, 
For  seven  days  feed  him  on  tigers  blood, 
Remove  his  eyes  that  he  sees  not  the  fate, 
That  such  as  he  should  lingeringly  wait. 
Then  to  the  cage,  nor  heed  his  shriek  of  fright, 
To  sate  the  leopard's  angry  appetite." 

There  Mercer  doles  his  dollars  out  with  care, 
And  tries  the  various  unguents  for  the  hair. 
To  he,  whose  pride  is  in  his  flowing  curls, 
Whose  gloss  is  valued  as  the  tint  of  pearls, 
How  many  mental  horrors,  gray  hairs  bring, 
How  many  sighs  they  from  the  bosom  wring. 
The  toothless  gum  speaks  ever  of  decay, 
The  setting  sun  proclaims  the  end  of  day, 
The  crumbling  wall  that  once  in  beauty  stood, 
The  shrinking  isle  that  once  defied  the  flood, 


THE   MONIAD.  95 

The  sapless  tree  that  cracks  at  each  keen  wind, 
Leave  a  sad  tale  of  weariness  behind. 
The  varied  patches  on  the  fisher's  cot, 
Conveys  the  thrift  that  crowns  his  toilsome  lot ; 
The  withered  leaf  that  gravely  floats  to  earth, 
Has  robbed  the  greenness  from  some  humble  hearth. 
Tread  where  we  will  we  see  the  naked  truth, 
Flaunted  by  age,  and  now  by  heedless  youth. 
The  dust  e'en  speaks  of  ended  destinies 
Which  every  wind  will  blow  into  our  eyes. 
Nature  produces  from  the  pregnant  clay, 
And  back  to  matter  must  all  things  decay. 

Here  Johnson's  dullness  sinks  below  our  sight, 
For  once  his  organs  choose  a  theme,  that's  Bright ; 
And  though  his  brains,  the  same  as  ever  reel, 
His  kidneys  fresh  activities  reveal. 

Now  comes  a  crowd  of  street  contractors  red, 
With  a  great  thought  that  thrills  each  bushy  head. 
They  offer  payment,  as  the  steps  they  mount, 
For  being  prompt  they  ask  a  huge  discount, 
Forgetting  still  that  interest  accrues 
If  not  a  premium,  for  the  generous  dues. 


96          t  THE   MONIAD. 

Mammon  receives  their  moneys  with  a  sneer 
And  bids  them  off.    A  bow-backed  mass  draws  near 
Full  of  design  too  hazardous  and  rash, 
They  ask  a  charge,  for,  keeping  sundry  cash. 
Mammon  thrice  views  each  shrunken  visage  o'er, 
Then  sends  them  sprawling  out  the  nearest  door. 
A  long  procession  follows.     Some  excuse 
The  errors  of  the  past,  and  prate  the  views, 
They  contemplate ;  some  the  interest  pay, 
And  beg  the  loan  be  paid  some  future  day ; 
While  others  flatly,  meaningly  outrave, 
And  whine  excuses  that  they  nothing  have. 
And  some  still  proudly  promises  recall, 
In  paying  interest,  premium,  and  all. 

One  fat  with  luxury's  untrammeled  lust, 
Aside  some  score  of  poor  delinquents  thrust, 
And  thus  to  Mammon  spoke.     "We  cannot  see 
Why  some  should  pay,  while  some  are  given  free ; 
Some  urgent  action  on  the  failing  band, 
By  way  of  punishment  we  do  demand." 

The  king,  as  if  to  check  the  upstart  pride, 
Reproachful  gazed  and  solemnly  replied. 


THE   MONIAD.  97 

"Because  a  few  twigs  withering  we  see, 
Should  we  destroy  or  e'en  condemn  the  tree  ? 
Although  one  plank  is  eaten  by  the  worms, 
The  ship  still  proudly  may  defy  the  storms. 
We  might  as  well  curse  Heaven's  gentle  sway, 
Because  the  rain  had  spoiled  our  holiday ; 
Or  wish  old  ocean  dried,  in  wild  despair, 
Haply  because  a  friend  lies  buried  there. 
Perhaps  the  terrors  from  a  world  of  woe 
Are  gathered  in  the  winds.     Now  moanings  low 
Are  heard.     Now  shrieks  along  the  eaves 
Each  frightful  cadence  some  new  horror  leaves. 
Now  cleft  by  quick  electric  shocks  alone 
It  cracks  and  thunders  like  a  bursting  zone. 
Anon,  the  storm  is  over,  and  one  sees 
The  flowers  look  pleasure  to  the  passing  breeze ; 
The  sun  now  peeps  from  out  a  silvery  shroud, 
The  voice  of  gladness  soon  is  heard  aloud. 
Nature  beams  forth  and  laughingly  does  nod. 
At  all  the  teachings  of  the  tempest  God. 
Just  like  ourselves,  when  trouble  comes  to  mar 
The  tomb-cloud  first  we  see,  and  then  the  star. 
So,  let  your  little  griefs  and  angers  end, 
For  greater  passions  greater  spirits  attend. 
9 


98  THE   MONIAD. 

To  various  natures  we  must  give  assent, 
With  all  their  changeful  vagaries  content." 

The  morn  passed  by  in  settling  the  affairs 
Which  some  prepared  for,  some,  took  unawares. 

"  Ye  votaries  of  the  golden  God  attend, 

The  vital  orders  of  his  chiefest  friend ; 

The  rules  of  hospitality  at  least 

Ordain,  that  you  do  grace  our  annual  feast. 

Rich,  great,  poor,  broken,  all,  the  low,  and  high, 

Must  quaff  a  bumper  to  his  majesty 

Within,  at  once/'     Here  Mammon  led  the  throng, 

Who  broke  into  a  baccanalian  song. 

Ten  thousand  tables  with  the  dainties  rare 
Of  summer  climes,  that  perfumed  all  the  air, 
Were  loaded  down.    Delicious  morsels  lay 
In  choice  profusion.    The  liberal  day 
Was  not  more  rosy  with  abundant  beams, 
Than  when  the  epicurean  monarch  seems 
In  one  wild  moment,  to  excel  in  feats 
That  flood  the  mass  with  appetizing  sweets, 
And  ever  changing  lists  of  tasteful  meats. 


THE   MONIAD.  99 

Some  who  but  late  were  weltering  in  their  shame, 
Call  from  their  souls  the  ever  blushing  flame 
Of  impudence.     There,  see  Sir  Morton  rise 
Above  the  set,  who  trebly  gormandize. 
They  take  his  mimicry  for  great  commands, 
While  Francis  madly  claps  his  reddened  hand. 
He  talks  of  railroads,  and  anon  of  cheese, 
Now  taps  his  forehead,  now  he  slaps  his  knees. 
Relates  to  all,  in  confidential  tone, 
That  when  he  travelled  in  Columbia's  zone, 
Strange  beings  followed  him,  nor  could  he  tell, 
If  from  below,  or  from  the  sky  they  fell. 
How  Belmont  flattered,  and  bowed  down  his  nose, 
How  merchants  toadied  at  Delmonieo's. 
He  tells  of  Bonner,  Cyrus,  and  the  rest, 
The  table  roars  to  hear  the  noble's  jest. 

Another  set  an  oracle  delights, 
The  champion  of  rich  wines  and  lustful  nights, 
He  loud  declaims  in  thick  enmuffled  tones, 
While  future  gouts  are  rankling  in  his  bones. 
He  blurts  his  habits  to  the  heavy  browed, 
And  all  his  follies  trumpets  to  the  crowd ; 
How  in  a  by-street  he  will  gorging  dine, 
And  hid  by  screens  drink  solitary  wine. 


100  THE   MONIAD. 

The  banker  sinks  besotted  in  his  chair, 

While  hands  applaud,  and  eyes  do  bloating  stare. 

While  pleasure  lightly  touched  each  glowing  mind, 
And  man  to  man  grew  marvellously  kind, 
While  fragmentary  scraps  of  maudlin  song, 
With  noble  strains  enwafted  Time  along, 
While  windy  spouters,  fumed,  and  stammered  loud, 
And  drunken  cheers  broke  from  tne  silly  crowd, 
A  long,  loud  roar  of  fierce  despair  is  heard. 
Mammon  turns  pale,  and  every  bosom  stirred 
With  a  gigantic  dread.    It  strikes  the  ground, 
Like  to  an  earthquake's  rending,  tearing  sound. 
What  is't?  and  every  pallid  cheek  more  white 
Grows  as  each  frame  so  fearful  pants  with  fright, 
While  the  knees  cower  with  a  weakening  sense, 
Whose  marrow  creeps  to  dull  incompetence. 
What  is't?    And  the  expanded  pupils  stare 
With  horror  on  the  phantasms  of  the  air 
Conjured  by  fear.    And  like  the  foul  blood  taint 
On  snowy  vestments  of  a  lovely  saint, 
The  red  eyes  stand  within  the  ghastly  face, 
Fixed  to  the  thought  that  terrifies  the  place. 


THE   MONIAD.  101 

Another  roar — the  Heaven's  seem  to  part, 

And  pour  their  thunders  on  each  dormant  heart ; 

A  million  trumpets  seem  to  blast  a  death, 

And  every  mortal  catches  for  his  breath. 

"  What  ho,"  cries  Mammon,  rearing  high  his  head, 

"  Go  some  and  find  the  cause  of  all  this  dread." 

A  sudden  cry  to  leave  the  wretched  spot, 

Starts  from  the  multitude's  awakening  throat, 

The  coin  decked  nobles  bawl  a  frightful  strain, 

And  caper  madly  that  they  cry  in  vain. 

A  sense  of  safety  with  the  action  comes, 

And  dribbling  drawlers  fain  would  reach  their  homes, 

A  rush  is  made  to  'scape  the  fearful  blast, 

What  horror's  this.    Lo !  every  door  is  fast. 

Now  comes  a  swarming  world  upon  the  scene, 
They  mount  the  walls,  and  cluster  o'er  the  green ; 
Good  sturdy  men  with  dreadful  hammers  armed, 
Which  ne'er  had  struck  for  vice,  nor  virtue  harmed. 
Athletic  frames  that  told  of  strength  and  grace, 
Reflecting  sunlight  from  the  rugged  face. 
Here  swung  aloft  by  th'  experienced  hand 
A  scythe  appeared,  which  oft  had  swept  the  land ; 
9* 


102  THE    MONIAD. 

While  there  a  broadaxe  of  the  shipwright  threw 

A  glare  of  power  on  the  brave  and  true. 

Tools  hastily  prepared,  flashed  in  the  sun, 

Like  bayonets  before  the  battle's  won ! 

Hoarse  shouts  and  dreadful,  shook  the  bending  trees, 

And  threats  of  vengeance  galloped  in  the  breeze. 

Mammon  the  meaning  of  the  uproar  learns, 
For  action  all  his  kindling  spirit  yearns ; 
He  to  his  votaries  urgently  now  calls 
To  follow  him  to  his  ancestral  halls. 
Awakening  from  the  passive  sense  of  fear, 
To  all  his  words  they  lend  a  willing  ear, 
Glad  that  a  chance  for  life  there  still  remains, 
Though  full  perchance  of  trouble  and  of  pains. 
They  plunge  within  and  wisely  run  about, 
Encase  their  forms  in  armor,  then  rush  out 
With  many  a  shriek,  and  many  a  lusty  shout. 

Behold  them  now  encircled  by  the  swarms 
That  seem  intent  on  some  most  hideous  harms ; 
That  swing  on  high  the  implements  of  war 
Proclaiming  torments  with  a  vengeful  roar. 
Mammon  commands  his  trumpeter.     A  blast 
Shakes  the  whole  earth  as  if  it  were  the  last, 


THE   MONIAD.  103 

Then  thus.     "Who  are  ye  men?  such  ye  appear! 
And  what  the  wish  that  brings  you  brawling  here  ?" 

Great  Kelly  here  stood  forth,  and  thus  replied. 

''We  come,  oh  Mammon,  we  the  world's  decried 

To  ask  equality.     Man's  sinews  get 

The  credit  for  their  work  well  done,  and  yet 

No  praises  do  your  minions  e'er  bestow 

On  us,  the  sinews  of  the  world.    Come,  show 

Us  why  a  favored  few  should  reign, 

In  joys,  while  millions  howl  with  constant  pain. 

Why  revel  you  in  luxuries  and  sweets, 

While  our  hard  labor  each  poor  joy  defeats?" 

Mammon  responds.     "Unknown  ye  are  to  me, 
What  you  demand  I  cannot  plainly  see. 
My  labors  should  not  grace  another's  throne, 
These  my  results  should  garnish  o'er  my  own. 
The  trickster  wins  what  he  of  right  should  not, 
No  page  of  mine  is  stained  with  such  a  blot. 
And  my  domains  embrace  a  circling  zone, 
The  free  gift  of  a  people  all  my  own. 
Then  why  your  interruption  ?    Get  you  hence ! 
And  stir  your  brains  up  with  some  little  sense." 
"Proud  relic  of  an  old  enervate  race, 
Not  bashfully  we  look  upon  your  face, 


1(M  THE   MONIAD. 

But,  boldly,  grandly,  with  an  eye  of  love, 
Or  fierce  if  need  be,  with  the  glare  of  Jove. 
"We  come  not  on  foul  robbery  intent, 
To  other  aims  our  passions  all  are  bent ; 
We  long  for  rest,  for  succor,  and  for  ease, 
You  hold  the  horn  that  all  our  tastes  can  please. 
'Tis  yours  to  give  it  from  your  flowing  land, 
Or  ours,  to  wrest  it  from  your  trembling  hand." 

Then  Mammon  almost  bursting  with  the  rage, 

Whose  various  fires  all  his  thoughts  engage, 

Spoke,  "Then  your  theme  is  theft.    Now,  by  these 


Your  aims  shall  suffer  direst  penalties. 
Quick  and  away :  or  ere  the  word  is  given, 
My  very  thoughts  send  you  to  Hell  or  Heaven. 

"  Impotent  monster!  boasting  but  defies 
The  awful  anger  of  avenging  skies. 
Lethargic  arts  have  robbed  your  blood  of  might ; 
Your  sun  has  rolled  into  an  endless  night. 
Your  day  has  passed  into  that  other  world, 
Where  twilight  death  has  pallid  stars  unfurled. 
Open  your  coffers;  roll  ducats,  eagles  out, 
Or  by  this  sturdy  arm,  that  manly  shout 


THE   MONIAD.  105 

A  deed  shall  horrify  a  groaning  earth, 
And  strike  forever  dead  all  forms  of  mirth. 
You  Mammon,  and  your  feeble  votaries 
Are  prisoners  even  at  your  revelries. 

"  Prisoners  or  not,  yet  first  we'll  try  our  steel, 
To  prove  the  prowess  each  now  seems  to  feel : 
What's  yours  is  yours,  what's  ours  we  will  maintain, 
We  strike  for  Eight,  but  you  for  ill  got  gain. 
Friends,  be  ye  soldiers  to  the  fullest  bent ! 
Come  on  ye  prowlers,  ere  the  day  be  spent  I" 
The  shining  weapons  of  the  multitude 
Clashed  a  response  without,  too  fiercely  rude. 
Hoarse  threats  enraged,  from  bellowing  lungs  upheaved 
In  volumes  vast,  the  sentiments  believed. 
One  great  in  limb,  his  apron  old  and  torn, 
His  eyes  deep  set  to  some  fell  purpose  sworn, 
Swung  round  his  head  a  hammer.    With  a  frown 
He  loosed  his  hold.    It  struck  great  Mammon  down. 

At  this  they  straight  assailed  the  yielding  doors. 
The  windows  rocked ;  the  tesselated  floors 
Shook  like  a  tree  when  by  the  tempest  stirred ; 
And  Mammon's  friends  had  seen,  and  felt,  and  heard, 
Such  terrors,  that  they  fain  would  have  disarmed, 
Content  to  give  up  all  to  be  not  harmed. 


106  THE   MONIAD. 

A  thousand  portals  opened,  and  a  horde 
Of  hardy  workman  indiscriminate  poured 
Into  the  halls  of  wealth,  whose  energy 
Stood  cowering,  because  it  could  not  flee. 
Quick  to  the  spot  the  votaries  were  tied  fast, 
The  victors  gloated  on  the  riches  vast. 
Mammon  the  while  not  dead,  still  held  his  breath, 
And  prudent  lay  while  counterfeiting  death; 
When  to  his  throne  his  body  soon  they  bound, 
Then  wondering  viewed  the  beauties  all  around. 
Some  rushed  at  once  the  golden  vaults  to  find, 
While  some  for  higher  game  remained  behind ; 
And  sought  the  gems  that  princely  bosoms  wore, 
One  Mammon's  signet  from  his  finger  tore. 
Some,  vases  of  the  antique  mould  surprise 
While  longings  for  possession  fill  their  eyes. 
The  hunter  of  the  curious  is  blest, 
With  teeth  that  in  the  mouth  of  Noah  did  rest. 
Still  more  flocked  to  the  tables,  and  with  might 
Enjoyed  the  carnival  of  appetite, 
Drank  of  the  wine,  too  deeply  for  their  good, 
As  first  it  roused,  then  deadened  all  their  blood. 
And  more  still  came,  and  more  still  deeply  drank, 
Excessive  ate,  nor  once  did  Mammon  thank. 


THE   MONIAD.  107 

Some  bending  'neath  a  load  of  ducats  stood 

And  quaffed  the  wine,  and  gorged  on  generous  food, 

Till  yielding  to  the  influence  gently  played, 

A  pillow  of  the  bags  of  coin  they  made. 

See  meats  and  pastry  quickly  disappear 

With  fruits  and  ices,  in  a  world  of  cheer, 

See  late  the  victors  in  a  bloodless  fray, 

Sink  to  the  floor  to  dream  the  meal  away. 

Now  Mammon  slips  from  the  degrading  thong 
And  with  a  knife,  he  moves  his  friends  among. 
The  bonds  of  each  are  cut,  till  all  are  free, 
Who  join  in  conference  of  strategy. 
Resolved  soon,  among  their  foes  they  spread, 
And  two  together  tie  them,  hands  and  head. 
Which  act  regains  their  gems,  their  gold  restores, 
And  turns  the  vanquished  workmen  out  of  doors. 
'Twas  thus  a  people  maddened  by  the  wrongs 
That  to  the  score  of  poverty  belongs, 
Committed  wrong  to  do  themselves  a  right 
And  fell  a  victim  to  their  appetite. 
And  when  victorious  o'er  the  favored  race 
Made  the  same  errors  in  the  self  same  place. 
So  thus  it  is  that  Mammon  still  does  reign, 
And  by  the  poor  encompasses  his  gain, 


108  THE    MONIAD. 

Why  they  remain  in  slavery  to  gold, 
And  pleasures  seldom  tasted,  but  behold. 

America :  We  see  thy  golden  clime 

Rise  proudly  with  a  confidence  sublime, 

And  like  a  temple  reared  by  loving  hand 

To  mark  the  progress  of  one's  native  land, 

Thou  standst  a  landmark  of  nobility 

And  all  thy  glories  luminate  the  sky. 

Thy  name  dost  make  the  swelling  heart  rejoice, 

As  the  soft  echo  of  a  dear  one's  voice 

Floats  with  an  image  to  the  fevered  soul, 

And  smooths  the  current  when  the  wild  waves  roll. 

The  thunders  of  thy  prowess  still  defy 

The  vaulted  spheres  imperial  cannonry ; 

Thy  power  imaged  in  Niagara's  flood, 

Sublime  companion  of  the  tempest  blood, 

Which  coursing  madly  through  great  Nature's  veins 

Rocks  the  mad  earth,  despising  human  reins. 

So,  like  a  moving  wonder  dost  thou  sweep 

Resistless  onward  to  the  greater  deep, 

Arise  in  splendor  from  the  watery  main 

And  shower  blessings  o'er  the  world  again. 

What  son  of  thine  but  leaps  the  stream  he  sees, 

Then  travels  round  it  for  his  greater  ease. 


THE    MONIAD.  109 

Did  Europe  see  thee  rising  from  afar 
Who  cam'st  a  meteor  but  remains  a  star  ? 
Her  sons  of  toil  who  grovel  through  the  night 
Behold  thy  coming  into  Freedom's  light, 
Who  shed'st  around  the  kindliest,  fullest  rays, 
And  fills  an  anxious  world  with  mightiest  praise. 
Who  would  not  see  thy  eagle  fully  spread, 
Mount  the  hot  winds  alone,  nor  know  a  dread, 
Defy  the  lightning  and  the  torrent  stem, 
And  claw  the  angry  clouds  to  master  them, 
Than  see  him  in  majestic  tameness  sail, 
Among  the  sparrows  and  the  cowering  quail. 
And  so  America,  we  think  of  thee 
The  bosom  and  the  sword  of  liberty. 
Thy  woods  still  breathe  the  notes  our  father's  sung, 
When  first  aloft  a  righteous  blade  they  swung ; 
The  world's  down-trodden  millions  seek  thee  out, 
And  at  their  tyrants  hurl  a  deathly  shout. 
They  drop  their  chains  with  many  a  biting  scoff, 
And  thank  thee  Freedom,  who  didst  strike  them  off. 

Thy  blood-fed  lands  a  richer  crop  now  yields, 
The  image  broken  that  disgraced  thy  fields. 
The  flaming  conflict,  lessons  did  impart 

Which  warped  not,  though  they  purified  thy  heart. 
10 


110  THE   MONIAD. 

Ne'er  shall  our  prayers  in  all  thy  valleys  cease 
While  hills  reverberate  the  songs  of  peace. 
Still  may  thy  statesmen  burn  the  midnight  oil 
To  elevate  thy  noble  sons  of  toil ; 
Still  may  thy  heroes  gild  our  history's  page 
And  gleam  like  beacons  on  the  growing  age ; 
Thy  Poets,  tribute  to  thy  shrine  still  bring, 
And  of  thy  virtues  eloquently  sing  ; 
Thy  hunters  in  pursuit  of  golden  game, 
Still  reach  the  dust  that  amplifies  thy  name  ;    ' 
Till  by  possession  we  united  stand, 
A  glorious  people  with  a  perfect  land. 

Yet,  'tis  not  money  that  alone  can  bless, 

And  lead  a  weary  soul  to  happiness, 

Mayhap  'twill  ease  the  pangs  of  mortal  pain 

When  greater  comforts  are  the  victims  gain  ; 

Perhaps  it  gives  that  luxury  and  ease 

Which  pleasures  first,  but  leads  to  quick  disease ; 

Or  yet  allows  the  bliss  of  charity 

To  mark  our  era  of  tranquillity. 

But  sordid  vices  oft  prolong  a  theme 

Inspired  by  a  monetary  dream, 

And  those  who  have  oft  to  their  ruin  run 

While  still  they  crave  who  much  more  blessed  have  none. 


THE    MONIAD.  Ill 

What  genius,  does  not  menial  birth  obscure, 

They  fear  to  rise  who  must  reproach  endure. 

There  is  not  a  street,  or  court,  or  hidden  lane, 

But  has  a  hero  for  its  good  or  bane, 

Whose  fame  has  never  reached  the  starry  heights, 

Which  aspiration  seeks  in  laboring  flights. 

Yonder  'tis  he  whom  a  tampering  Fate 

Endows  with  mind  that  well  might  grace  a  State. 

But  gives  a  ragged  coat  to  shame  desire, 

Providing  fuel  but  denying  fire. 

Or  yon  poor  girl,  she  of  the  pallid  face, 

Whom  thought  that  was  not  Truth's  did  ne'er  abase, 

Whose  kind  intentions  Heaven  would  confirm, 

A  vicious  parent  crushes  in  the  germ. 

Here  'tis  a  monster  with»a  hairy  arm 

And  there  a  poet  with  the  Muses  charm, 

Who  pictured  in  a  helpless,  harmless  youth, 

Still  stirs  old  sores  up  with  a  spoon  of  truth. 

Too  oft,  alas,  incipient  heroes  tread 

A  stage  erected  in  their  mother's  head, 

The  first  year,  loud  the  well  known  praises  are, 

Because  the  darling  is  so  wondrous  fair. 

If  in  the  second  year  it  stoutly  cries, 

'Tis  held  up  as  a  wonder  for  its  size. 


112  THE   MONIAD. 

The  third  and  bonds  to  Earth  it  feebly  breaks 
The  sad  effect  of  fondling  and  of  cakes. 
'Tis  thus  in  every  phase  and  grade  of  life 
These  forms  appear  and  mingle  in  its  strife ; 
Receive  applause,  or  execrations  curse, 
As  they  the  good  uphold  or  vice  rehearse ; 
And  lie  in  state,  mourned  by  a  weeping  crowd, 
Or  crouch  within  a  box  without  a  shroud. 

So  let  us  join  a  firm  and  willing  hand 

To  high  resolves,  and  tireless  till  the  land ; 

View  with  bright  eye,  and  brain  by  Reason  cleared, 

The  little  house  that  Industry  has  reared; 

Inhale  the  sweets  by  Heaven  freely  sent, 

Indulge  the  pleasures  Wisdom  will  invent; 

Nor  wish  for  cares  that  millions  would  prolong, 

To  pale  the  blood  and  end  the  gushing  song. 

So  be  content  ye  ever  yearning  poor, 

And  with  an  eye  of  care  this  truth  read  o'er, 

Where  Poverty  kills  one,  Riches  kill  a  score. 


THE     END. 


